


Proud

by WatMcGregor



Category: EastEnders (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:54:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 43,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28634322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatMcGregor/pseuds/WatMcGregor
Summary: Callum's always assumed he's probably straight.  An unexpected reunion with his old schoolmate Ben Mitchell has him questioning that assumption. 1970's-set coming out AU. Warning for homophobia and discrimination.So it turns out the only way to stay sane in lockdown v3 is to write...
Relationships: Callum "Halfway" Highway/Ben Mitchell
Comments: 315
Kudos: 202





	1. Coming in out of the cold

Outside, it’s dark. Even more so after the artificially bright light of the supermarket. As the security guard shuts the door behind him and the few other last-minute shoppers alongside him, Callum fumbles to get his wallet back in his rucksack, lingering a while in the slightly warmer air just outside the shop.  
His breath fogs in front of him as he hitches his rucksack on his shoulders and pulls his donkey jacket closer around him, and then sets off down the road towards home. At this time of night, at this time of year, the workers walk quickly, heads down, braced against the cold with collars pulled up around their ears and hands shoved deep into their pockets. Hurrying home after work, looking forward to a night of telly. Thursday tonight, so Tomorrow’s World and Top of the Pops. Last week on Tomorrow’s World they’d had a prototype phone that you could carry round with you – provided you could carry the battery pack too, which had looked like it weighed a ton. Callum doesn’t know what the world’s coming to. A wireless phone! He can’t see it catching on, not when there are phone boxes every few hundred yards in London, like the one he’s passing now. He glances in and sees that there’s a new splash of grafitti all over the windows, ‘Millwall 1979’ in bright red letters that almost match the colour of the phone box, with drips running down from the ‘w’ and the ‘7’. As he passes, he sees a couple of National Front slogans on the side. Looks like someone’s had another attempt to prise open the cash drawer, too.  
It starts to rain as he nears home, spotting at first, the rain as cold and hard as needles on his face, and he quickens his pace as he stifles a yawn, looking forward to getting indoors. Glad to make himself a cuppa and settle in front of the telly too. He won’t be sleeping any time soon, not after the kind of day he’s had today. Two fights to break up and a drunk and disorderly to apprehend, trying to reason with him from the side of the dual carriageway up near the Blackwall Tunnel with his heart in his mouth as the bloke staggered in between the cars bombing past him in a blaze of horns and flashing lights. Callum had thought he was a goner; it was all he could do to keep watching the bloke, steeling himself for the surely inevitable impact, the sight of a body being flung up into the air and the crunching sound as it landed. Miraculously, though, Callum had managed singlehandedly to get the traffic to come to a halt and the horns had continued blaring as he’d talked the bloke round, being treated to far too much detail about the collapse of the bloke’s marriage. Not for the first time, he’d wondered if love was all it was cracked up to be; wondered if it was worth the effort.  
He nears the bus-stop on his side of the road. It’s become a sort of landmark to him since he’d moved into his flat on the very edge of the Square. Any time he got level with the bus-stop he knew it was only a couple of minutes more til he was home. Past the hardware store, underneath the railway bridge and round the corner, and there he’d be.  
There’s someone sitting at the stop, huddled into a leather jacket with his chin on his chest, his arms crossed against the cold and his hands in his armpits. Callum sees the tremors that pass through the bloke’s body as he draws near and feels sorry for him. Must be freezing. He hardly looks dressed for the weather and he might have been there for ages. Maybe the number 260’s running late again. It wouldn’t be the surprise of the century.  
The faint light of the bus-stop illuminates the bloke’s brown hair, and as he raises his head to look up the road for the bus, his features are thrown into relief.  
It looks like - .  
Callum’s face creases in pleasure. “Ben Mitchell?”  
The bloke’s whole body stiffens. He stands up and glances quickly in the opposite direction as if he’s thinking about making a run for it, but then Callum sees his shoulders drop and he turns slowly to meet his gaze. “Surprise!” he says, in a flat voice.  
“What you doin’ ‘ere?” asks Callum, walking up close to him to try and cut off his angles of escape. Back at school they’d been close, part of the gang that sat at the back of the class and messed around, driving all the teachers to distraction, but after school they’d drifted apart like all their little gang. Callum supposes that’s partly because of him. Because of his career choices. He supposes having a copper as a mate is an acquired taste in this part of London. “What you up to? You still livin’ with yer dad?”  
He sees a frown appear on Ben’s face. “Nah. I, uh, moved out a couple of days ago, as it ‘appens.”  
Ben shivers again. He’s looking pinched and weary, his stubble grown out and scruffy-looking. Callum’s protective instincts kick in, like they always used to when the pair of them were at school.  
“Where you off to?”  
Ben huffs a humourless laugh. “Shouldn’t you be askin’ where I been?”  
“Yeah, we’ll get to that,” says Callum, feeling like something’s off. “But right now you look like yer about to do a runner, and - ”  
“That’s cos I am,” says Ben. “I’m goin’ up West, so get out me way, Callum.”  
“Nah, not til ya tell me what yer up to.” Callum tries not to take Ben’s dismissive tone personally and shifts a step closer. “Where ya stayin’ these days?”  
He sees Ben press his lips together, his jaw tighten and his chin tilt up. “Can’t resist, can ya Mr Plod? Still a polis-man, even when yer off duty. Gonna arrest me for lookin’ suspicious? ‘S’what yer bosses’d expect, ain’t it?”  
“When did I ever do what I was s’posed to do when it come to you?” asks Callum, his face softening into a faint smile in spite of himself as he remembers all the scraps and scrapes Ben Mitchell had led him into in their younger years. “Course I ain’t. And besides which, ya don’t look suspicious, ya just look freezin’. I just wanna know yer OK.”  
“I’m survivin’,” says Ben, as if that’s an end to the matter.  
“Where ya stayin’?” asks Callum again.  
“Here ‘n’ there.” Ben shifts weight from one hip to the other and tries to stifle another shiver. “Last night I found a nice little place, compact and bijou, open plan. Good views of the open countryside. Nice to get back to nature.”  
He’s looking shifty, despite his attempt to be flippant and breezy. He avoids Callum’s gaze, and suddenly Callum puts two and two together. “You slept in the park?”  
Ben’s silence tells him that he’s right. “God, Ben…”  
“I ain’t stayin’ round ‘ere,” says Ben. “Gonna go up West tonight. Or, tomorrow mornin’, cos it looks like the bus ain’t gonna come to get me there tonight.”  
“And where ya gonna sleep in the meantime? Another park bench?”  
Ben shrugs.  
“No,” says Callum. “Yer comin’ home with me.”  
“Callum, that ain’t a good - ”  
“Just the one night. It won’t hurt. You can be gone before I get up for me next shift if ya want, but you ain’t sleepin’ outdoors on a night like this.” He stares plaintively at Ben, and Ben stares back, sizing him up; clearly weighing up the pros and cons in his head as he chews lightly on his bottom lip.  
“I got a nice comfy sofa,” says Callum, pressing home his advantage. “Pillows, a duvet. Hot drinks, whisky.” He takes off his rucksack and rummages in the front pocket before brandishing what he hopes will be the clincher. “Polo mints, even! When was the last time you ‘ad polo mints?”  
“That ain’t fair,” protests Ben, trying to conceal a shy smile. He always had liked polo mints; back in the day there was never a time when he didn’t have a pack stashed away in the inside pocket of his school blazer. “You ain’t playin’ fair.”  
“Yer crumblin’ though, ain’t ya?” asks Callum, his heart quickening a little at the sight. “I’m winnin’ ya round.”  
Ben rolls his eyes. “When didn’t ya?”  
“So you’ll stay?”  
“It ain’t a good idea,” repeats Ben. “For all sorts of reasons.”  
“But sleepin’ in the park is an even worse idea, for even more reasons,” insists Callum. “Please?”  
Ben sighs a long, resigned sigh. “Right… well, if ya insist.”  
“I do. Think of it as a favour to me.”  
“Why? Lonely, are ya? Need a bit of company for the night?”  
They’d both been relaxing into the back and forth of their banter, the faint smile on Ben’s face mirrored by one on Callum’s. Now, both of them drop eye contact and shift awkwardly.  
“Sorry,” mutters Ben. “I was tryin’ to be funny, makin’ out…” He trails off and shrugs. “Sorry, shouldn’t joke about that kind of stuff.”  
“Don’t matter,” says Callum, slinging his rucksack back over one shoulder and ignoring the unease that’s prickling up the back of his neck that Ben’s said such a weird thing. Although, back in the day, he would never have apologised for joking around like that. “I’m only just round the corner. Come on.”  
He concentrates on tearing open the polo mints, pulling back the wrapper and holding them out to Ben.  
“Sorry,” says Ben again as he takes one. He huffs a laugh. “I don’t half talk a load of rubbish when I’m…”  
He trails off and puts the mint in his mouth as they pass under the bridge and turn the corner into the Square.  
“This is me,” says Callum a minute or so later, stopping at the bottom of a set of stone steps that leads up to the front door of his building. He climbs the steps and shoves his key in the lock. As it turns and he pushes the door open he glances back at Ben. He’s still standing down on the pavement. He still looks like he’s about to do a runner.  
They stare at each other, motionless, as the rain starts coming down harder.  
“Yer gonna catch yer death if you don’t come in,” says Callum, fixing him with a level stare, hoping against hope that he doesn’t run for it.  
Ben dips his head and kicks at the bottom step with the toe of his boot, still making up his mind, so Callum pulls his key from the lock and steps inside the door. He can’t force the bloke to do something he doesn’t want to do, never could, although he’s not exactly sure why it seems like such a big deal for him. It’s only a couch for the night. He steps towards the door to his flat on the right of the hallway, the front door swinging closed behind him with a slow creak. Just before it clicks shut, it’s pushed open again and Ben steps cautiously into the hallway. Callum smiles to himself, focussed on unlocking the door to his flat.  
Inside, it’s chilly. Callum switches on the light then crosses to the airing cupboard to switch on the heating, and turns the immersion heater on for good measure at the same time. He strides to the window to draw the curtains. Turning, he sees that Ben is hovering in the doorway, peering around the room. In the light he looks even more down at heel. His hair is greasy and there are dark rings under his eyes. He looks like he’s all out of luck.  
“Come in,” Callum says, beckoning quickly. “Don’t let all the heat out.”  
Ben does as he’s told, shutting the door carefully behind himself. “I never thought to ask. You live ‘ere on yer own, do ya?”  
Callum avoids the more obvious question behind Ben’s enquiry. “Yep. Whit comes over sometimes, but I’m pretty much on me own here.”  
“Ah, you got with her in the end, did ya?” asks Ben. “You spent all yer schooldays chasin’ her. Finally gave in, did she?”  
“Sommat like that,” says Callum. That’s not how he remembers their school days. “We’re off and on.” As he crosses to the kitchen to put away the odds and ends he’d bought at the supermarket, Ben sinks down onto the couch, sitting gingerly right at the very edge, as if he thinks Callum might yell at him for getting it dirty. The radiators start creaking as the heating kicks in.  
“You want a drink?” calls Callum, opening one of the kitchen cupboards to get a couple of mugs.  
“Yeah, what you havin’?” asks Ben.  
“Tea,” calls back Callum. “That do ya?”  
“Yeah, lovely. Ta.”  
When Callum takes the drinks back into the living room, Ben is standing in front of the bookcase in the corner, rain-spattered jacket still on, his head on one side as he reads the spines of the few books Callum’s arranged there. He looks round and smiles his thanks as Callum puts his drink on the coffee table, then picks up the photo of Callum, Stuart and Rainie from the middle shelf to look at it more closely.  
“That was Stu’s weddin’ day,” says Callum, settling back in the armchair. “Last year.”  
“Blimey,” says Ben. “Stuart, married.” He places the photo back down and comes to sit on the couch opposite Callum, and it’s then that Callum realises he doesn’t have a bag with him.  
“How many days’ve you bin sleepin’ rough?” he asks.  
“Two,” says Ben, leaning forward to pick up his mug of tea, huddling over it with both his hands clasped tight around it.  
“And you never thought to bring a bag of clothes with ya?”  
Ben shrugs. “I had to leave a bit quick. And anyway, I was gonna sign on, thought I’d be sorted within the day.” He takes a sip of his drink, smacking his lips afterwards. “Turns out ya can’t get a giro if you ain’t got no fixed address.”  
“You ain’t got a job neither?” asks Callum, aghast at how far Ben seems to have fallen.  
Ben shakes his head. “I was workin’ for me dad over the car lot, so…” He tails off and shrugs again. Callum watches as a shiver courses through his body. “I’ve got savin’s,” he continues, “But I left me bank book behind when I…” His stomach rumbles loudly. He shifts position and looks embarrassed.  
“You wanna bath?” asks Callum, pushing all the questions he wants to ask to the back of his mind. “Warm you up.”  
Ben looks as if he’s about to question why Callum is being so accommodating, but then his face clears into resignation. “Wouldn’t say no.”  
“Right. Give it a few minutes for the immersion to heat up, then go and get cleaned up and I’ll make us somethin’ to eat.”  
Callum turns on the telly and sits beside Ben on the couch to watch the early evening news. The stories about Anthony Blunt are rumbling on. They watch in silence as a member of the royal household gives a statement about the fact that Her Majesty had no idea that a member of her staff was the ‘fourth man’ in the Cambridge Spy Ring. The reporter seems to think this may have been the least of the man’s crimes. It’s rumoured he was also a homosexual. The implication seems to be that a man like that should never have been let anywhere near Her Majesty in the first place. Callum thinks about making a joke, about describing to Ben some of the queer nightclubs the coppers have to raid on an occasional basis; the state of some of the men they see in them, but he thinks better of it. There’s a residual part of him that feels uneasy at his involvement in those raids, usually with names like ‘Operation Righteous’ or ‘Operation Clean-up’ but still – often they’ll bring in kids who aren’t even old enough to be in those places. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty year-olds, and that can’t be right, can it? Letting kids that age mix with the predatory older blokes? Nevertheless, the way the police carry on doesn’t sit right with him.  
Beside him, Ben shifts uncomfortably. “You reckon the water’ll be hot enough for a bath now?”  
“Should be.” Callum gets up to fetch him a clean towel and then, while Ben heads for the bathroom, he goes into the kitchen to start preparing beans on toast. 

“Uh, Cal…”  
Ten minutes later Callum turns to see Ben in the doorway in just a towel, his uncovered skin pink from the hot water of the bath. The air fills with the scent of Callum’s soap.  
“You ain’t got a disposable razor I could have, have ya?”  
“Yeah, course. Should be one in the cabinet over the sink,” says Callum, ignoring his awkwardness at the sight of Ben half-naked. Funny how he feels like the one who should be embarrassed. “Might be a spare toothbrush in there an’ all.”  
Ben scratches his left arm with his right hand, his action shielding his body. He’s filled out, no longer the skinny little kid Callum remembers from school showers on games days, now with a smattering of fine hair on his chest and more running beneath his navel and disappearing beneath the towel. Callum averts his gaze as Ben says, “Cheers, yer a life-saver.”  
“You wanna borrow some kecks an’ all?”  
Ben’s expression clears to relief. “Er, yeah, if you don’t mind.”  
Callum turns down the heat under the beans and heads towards his bedroom. “’S no bother. I’ll get you some socks an’ all.”  
“I’ll wash ‘em and get ‘em back to ya,” says Ben, following so close behind him he’d trip over if Callum stopped suddenly. Callum senses he can feel his body heat against his back. “Once I’ve got a roof over me head again,” adds Ben.  
“No need,” says Callum, “kecks an’ a pair of socks won’t break the bank.”  
He crosses to dig in his underwear drawer and pulls out a pair of his second-best underpants and some paired-up socks that have a tiny hole in the bottom of one of them.  
“Well in that case I’ll keep ‘em under me pillow when I’ve got one,” says Ben with an attempt at a cheery grin. Callum darts a quick glance at him and immediately he looks mortified. “Sorry. Still tryin’ to do that humour thing. Ignore me.”  
“I never knew ya cared,” says Callum, trying to take the heat out of the moment and bring back some of the daft humour they’d shared at school. Instead, the awkwardness levels seem to ramp up another notch. They both look away and Ben clears his throat.  
“Right, well…” he gestures back over his shoulder. “Better go an’ finish off making meself presentable.”  
“Uh… yeah. I’ll go an’ stop the beans from burnin’,” says Callum. He heads back into the kitchen and peers into the saucepan, trying to work out how Ben Mitchell, who always had a smart answer for their teachers back in the day, now seems like he wouldn’t say boo to a goose.


	2. Leaving the past behind

Callum opens the bedroom door slowly and peers out into the living room. He’s not entirely sure what he’s expecting, no surer what he’s hoping for. He’s surprised a bit by the sinking feeling in his guts that tells him very clearly though. He was hoping Ben would still be there when he woke up, but all that greets him is the empty couch, the pillows and duvet he’d lent Ben stacked up neatly on one end.  
Callum lets out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, and tells himself it doesn’t matter. Ben’s gone, but at least he spent the night in warmth and safety, rather than out in some godforsaken park. Callum crosses to the window to draw back the curtains and check on the weather. Last night’s rain has stopped, but the pavements are still damp and the sky is still grey. There’s more on the way.  
“Thought you was still dead to the world!”  
Callum spins round at the voice, his mood lifting immediately. Ben is standing in the kitchen doorway, fully dressed with a mug of tea in his hand. “I weren’t sure whether to bring one in for ya,” he says, waving the mug in Callum’s direction. “Kettle’s only just boiled though. I’ll pour ya one.”  
“Thanks,” says Callum, with a wide smile. He tries to dial it back a little, and crosses to stand in the doorway while Ben chucks a teabag in a second mug and pours water onto it. “You had breakfast?”  
“Nah. Thought I’d wait for you.”  
Callum flicks the radio on and Freddie Mercury’s voice fills the room, singing about a Crazy Little Thing Called Love as Callum busies himself with getting the bread out of the breadbin and putting slices under the grill. “Sleep alright?”  
“Like a log,” says Ben. He’s looking and sounding a lot more chipper than he had last night. They’d chatted for an hour or so after eating, but Callum had feigned a need for an early night when he’d seen how exhausted Ben looked. Ben had offered no further clues as to why he was homeless. In fact, every time Callum had tried to broach the subject Ben had steered them quickly onto safer ground, reminiscing about people they’d known, things they’d done when they were knocking about together. Callum’s not denying it had been nice, but he’s full of questions.  
He chances a mini-interrogation when they’re settled in the living room eating breakfast. “So, why ain’t you livin’ with yer dad anymore?”  
Ben chews on his toast and frowns. “Just fell out with ‘im,” he says through his mouthful. He looks up and sees that Callum is still throwing him an enquiring look. He swallows down the toast and rolls his eyes. “We ain’t been seein’ eye to eye for a while. And it seemed like a good time to branch out on me own.”  
“By sleepin’ in the park?”  
Ben leans forward and places his empty plate on the coffee table, then rubs his hands over it to rid them of any crumbs. “Beggars can’t be choosers.” He’s avoiding Callum’s gaze. A muscle twitches in his jaw.  
“But what was so urgent that you couldn’t stay put and plan a move?” asks Callum, mystified. “Why d’ya have to get out there and then?”  
“Why d’ya think?” asks Ben, his voice rising in frustration, allowing Callum to see a spark of the old Ben he used to know. “You’re the copper. Use yer detectin’ skills Callum.”  
“He kicked you out?”   
“Yup.”  
There’s usually a reason why people leave home suddenly. In all his time as a copper, Callum’s narrowed it down to only two or three reasons. Either kids are getting abused, or wives are getting abused, or the kids have gone so far off the rails their parents can’t cope any more. At twenty-three, Ben’s too old to be at the mercy of his dad though, and his parents split up years ago. They were one of the first divorced couples Callum had ever known; there was a bit of a scandal about it at school at the time. He remembers Ben suddenly becoming withdrawn and sullen for the whole of the fifth year whereas before he’d been the life and soul of the class. It was about that time he’d started picking fights, too, but that’s all in the past, and Callum is at a loss to know why Ben would suddenly have been kicked out by his dad, unless…  
“Was it sommat to do with drugs?”  
“What?”  
“Was you on drugs? Is that why yer dad kicked you out?”  
Ben gives him a disbelieving smile. “Nah. ‘S a mug’s game, ain’t it? And besides which, if I was I wouldn’t tell you, would I Mr Copper? Nah, we just had uh… a difference of opinion, that’s all.”  
“So he might take ya back then,” says Callum. “Once the pair of ya have cooled off?”  
“My dad will not be lettin’ me anywhere near that house again,” says Ben, in a tone of voice that suggests the discussion is over.  
They sit in silence. From the radio in the kitchen, Elton John’s Your Song plays. Callum tries to imagine loving a girl so much he could write a song like that about her. He tries to imagine loving Whit that much. He can’t quite do it. He wasn’t lying when he told Ben last night that they were on and off. These days, it seems they’re more off than on though. He’ll have to ring her up soon, suggest she comes over for an evening.  
He glances at the clock. Nearly time for him to start getting ready for his shift. He’s quite enjoying having someone else in the flat for a change. Someone to talk to. He’d enjoyed last night too, reminiscing about the mischief they’d got up to in their schooldays. It had taken him right back there, almost made him feel like he was a kid again with none of the hassles that jobs and on-off girlfriends brought when you became an adult.  
“Listen,” he says as Your Song fades out and Chic’s My Forbidden Lover takes its place. “Why dontcha stay here for a few days, just till you get yer benefits sorted? You said you needed a fixed address to give em down at the social. Use this place.”  
Ben’s face briefly registers hope, but then he covers it up with a frown. “Nah, I can’t - ”  
“Course ya can. Where else was ya gonna go?”  
“I was gonna go up West to Centrepoint,” says Ben, shamefaced. “See if I could stay there for a while.”  
“A hostel? Don’t be daft. Kip on me sofa for as long as ya want.”  
“You sure? Soon as I get me giro I’ll move on.”  
Callum shrugs. “Don’t matter how long it takes. Yer welcome here. I could hardly kick me old mate out, could I?”

Callum’s missed having good, proper mates like the ones he had at school. He’s friendly with some of his fellow-coppers but they don’t know him like his schoolmates did. It’s ages since he’s seen them though. As well as Ben, there was Jay, a ginger kid with a dry wit and an economic way with words; and Martin, a tall, easy-going kid who seemed to get all the girls, even though Jay was in competition with him for most of them. Ben and Callum didn’t seem to get much female interest at all, possibly because they were thick as thieves and gave off ‘couldn’t care less’ vibes, despite Ben saying that Callum had spent his days chasing Whitney Dean. Callum knew that he’d always been happiest when he was messing around with Ben, joking and jostling at the back of the class and forming a very receptive audience to Ben’s wicked sense of humour. There didn’t seem to be much space for any girls in their mutual appreciation society. Maybe the girls of Walford Secondary School sensed that. They certainly didn’t trouble themselves to chase either one of them.  
Since school, Callum’s missed that closeness with a mate who knows him inside and out. Maybe it’s immaturity, hankering back to that time. Maybe when you grow up you have to accept that you won’t ever have that closeness again, except maybe with your wife when you eventually find one. Callum can’t ever imagine having the synchronicity with a woman that he had with his mates though, not if his lacklustre relationship with Whit is anything to go by.  
He zones out during the briefing when he gets to work that morning, daydreaming with a grin on his face about the time Ben glued the board eraser to the blackboard in third-year maths. Mr Evans, the maths teacher, was bad-tempered at the best of times, but the sight of him desperately trying to prise the eraser off the board had brought tears to their eyes. Better still was Ben’s innocent denial that he’d had anything to do with it, while all the time the tube of Evo-stick was poking out of his rucksack at his feet. They’d had to leave the eraser on the board in the end, and for the next two years Ben and Callum had sniggered every time a teacher had to write around it, or the odd no-hoper supply teacher tried in vain to remove it.  
“Don’t get any more creative, do they?” asks PC Savage beside him, bringing him back to the present with a bump.  
“Huh?” asks Callum.  
Savage gestures at the officer who’s leading the briefing. “’Operation Straighten.’ Where do they pick these names from, eh?”  
Callum peers around the heads of the officers in front of him to look at the briefing board. “Not another raid?”  
“Yup,” confirms Savage. “That queer club down Bridge Street again.”  
“When?”  
“Friday night.”  
Callum does a quick calculation in his head. “I’m on duty that night.”  
“Looks like you’ll be bringin’ ‘em in then,” says Savage. “Keep yer back to the wall, won’tcha?”  
Callum doesn’t bother to laugh at his weak joke. He gets that they have to be sure there’s nothing illegal or immoral going on in these places, but he doesn’t see why they can’t just let most of the poor blokes get on with it, if that’s what floats their boats. All too often on these raids, though, he sees men arrested for absolutely no reason at all, ridiculed by the police officers who bring them in, and then released without charge after a night in the cells. Callum’s sure the police must have better things to be doing with their time. Case in point, the National Front march the briefing officer’s gone on to announce that’s happening Saturday and that’ll need extra officers to police. Oh well, at least the club raid means Callum’ll spend some of his shift in out of the cold Friday night, even if some poor sods are going to get more than they bargained for on their night out.   
He suddenly remembers a kid at school that everyone had thought was probably ‘one of them’. What was his name? Paul something or another? Ben had beaten him up when he stepped on his toe one time during the fifth year. He’d really gone to town on the kid, and then refused to speak to Callum for a whole week after. Callum never had got to the bottom of that little episode. He remembers the relief he’d felt though at the end of that long, long week, when Ben had sidled over to him at break with a shy smile on his face and a quietly muttered ‘Alright?’   
When he’d set off for work Callum had left Ben at the flat preparing to go down the Social again to see if he could put in a benefit claim. “Help yerself to food when ya get back,” Callum had said as he gave him the spare set of keys. “There’s a tin of Spam in the cupboard if ya want a sandwich.”  
“Yeah, cheers,” Ben had said, reverting to the quiet, timid Ben that unnerved Callum, if he’s honest with himself. It seems like he’s had all the stuffing knocked out of him.  
He occupies Callum’s thoughts for the rest of the day as he patrols east London in the drizzly rain. It’s a pretty uneventful day; just a call to attend at a house where a suspected burglary was taking place, the perp long gone by the time Callum gets there, and a couple of altercations in shops to sort out. It had given Callum plenty of time with his thoughts. God knows how Ben’s going to cope without all his belongings, especially his bank book. Callum wonders if he really has fallen out with his dad as completely as he was making out. Surely Phil wouldn’t prevent Ben from picking up his stuff?  
He spots the man himself as he’s heading down Victoria Road that evening on the way home from work, and tells himself if that isn’t a sign, he doesn’t know what is. Callum lengthens his stride to catch up with him.  
“Alright Phil?” he says as he draws level.  
Phil is lumbering along looking like a bear with a sore head. He glances up at Callum’s greeting and allows a fleeting smile to pass across his features. “Alright Callum?”  
“Yeah.” Callum clears his throat. “Listen, I’ve got Ben stayin’ with me at the moment.”  
He sees Phil’s expression harden at the mention of Ben’s name. “You don’t wanna encourage him -”  
“I don’t think it’ll be for long,” adds Callum hurriedly, taken aback at the venom in the man’s voice. “Only, he ain’t got none of his stuff. His clothes or his bank book or nothin’. You wouldn’t let me come over and pick it up for him, would ya?”  
Phil glares round at him. “He set you up for this, did he?”  
”Nah, he don’t know nothin’ about it.”  
Phil had looked like he was going to refuse, but at Callum’s words he appears to reconsider. They walk along in silence for a few steps, until eventually he says, “Well it is clutterin’ up me house. I s’pose you’d be doin’ me a favour. Can you come over now?”  
Callum’s even more taken aback at the casual way in which Phil regards Ben’s personal belongings as just a minor inconvenience to him. He tries to muster up a smile. “Yeah, course.”   
They head up the road together. Phil’s never been much of a one for conversation, and Callum gives up trying to engage him after his attempts are met only with grunts. Phil doesn’t bother to ask after Ben, so Callum doesn’t tell him, feeling protective of Ben with a strength that surprises him.  
Once at the house, Phil gestures up the stairs. “First on the right. But then you already know that, don’tcha?”  
“Yeah,” says Callum. “Listen Phil, I’m really grateful yer lettin’ me do this. Ben will be an’ all, I’m sure.”  
Phil stares at him for a few seconds, scrutinising closely as if he’s trying to decipher something about him, but his only reply, when it comes, is “You got twenty minutes. I’m goin’ over the Vic in a bit.”  
“Right, I won’t be long. Cheers Phil.”  
It feels strange to be back in that house again. It must be getting on for eight years since Callum’s climbed those stairs and poked his head around the door of the bedroom on the right. As he does so again now, he almost expects to be greeted by Ben as he remembers him, sprawled on his bed with records strewn around him, some spilling onto the floor half-out of their covers, and the latest David Bowie song on the record player. David Bowie if he was feeling happy; the Kinks if the woes of the world were upon him. Callum remembers how Ben would glance up with raised eyebrow and a sly grin on his face to give his customary greeting. “Well, if it ain’t the wanderer returned!”   
No matter what kind of day he’d had at school, Callum’s spirits would always rise at the sight of that grin.  
Then Ben would launch into a forensic explanation of why Callum had to listen to the record he’d cued up; pointing out the dexterity of the bassline, or the exact second the strings kicked in and why that was a transcendent moment. Callum would get swept along in his enthusiasm, and to this day there are songs that take him right back to that scruffy, cluttered little bedroom whenever he hears them.   
Often, it would just be the two of them but sometimes Martin and Jay would join them too, packed into the little room causing mayhem, until invariably Phil would roar at them from the bottom of the stairs to shut their row.  
Now, as Callum steps inside the room, the record player is nowhere to be seen. The walls are still beige, but the posters that had adorned them are gone too – footballers and pop stars all consigned to the bin, like all their childhood enthusiasms. The single bed is neatly made, still with the sheets that Ben would have been sleeping in until he was abruptly kicked out of the house. Callum sits down and smoothes his hand over the pillow. He just can’t work out what would have caused such a rift between Ben and Phil, what was so beyond the pale that they couldn’t work it out. He wonders when Phil’s going to get round to stripping the bed and washing the sheets. He hopes forlornly that the fact Phil hasn’t done this, hasn’t made it permanent, means there’s a way back for Ben. There’s a bottle of Brut aftershave on the bedside cabinet, the same aftershave Ben wore all through the fourth and fifth forms at school. Callum takes off the top and sprays a little into the air. He’s always liked that smell.  
He stands and opens the wardrobe, noticing that there’s a hold-all stashed away at the bottom, and he opens it up and then grabs handfuls of clothes off the hangers, shoving them roughly into the bag, trying to squeeze in as much as he can. The clothes hangers jangle and crash against the back of the wardrobe as he works. The chest of drawers next to the wardrobe yields underwear, t-shirts and socks, and he wrangles these into the side pockets of the bag, then looks around the room, considering what else Ben might need; what might make up an emergency bundle for someone who’s a refugee from his own home. He suddenly remembers the bank book, and roots around in the drawer of the bedside cabinet until he finds it, displacing a cache of photos as he does so. He takes a second to look through them. Pictures of Ben out on the town with people Callum doesn’t know. He looks happy, smiling as he raises his pint to the photographer. Callum feels obscurely pleased that Ben has happier aspects to his life. He’d always struck Callum as being a bit of a loner, despite being part of the gang. He’d never really let anyone get too close – apart from Callum, that is. As he flicks through the photos, he finds one towards the bottom of the pile of him and Ben in their schooldays. He remembers it being taken on the last day of summer term in the fourth form. They stand side by side, arms around each other’s shoulders, with big grins on their faces in front of the science block. They look like they haven’t got a care in the world. Looking at it now, Callum feels a wide smile spreading across his face. The jubilation on their younger faces is infectious. He wonders why he ever let himself lose touch with Ben.  
“You finished yet up there?”  
Callum comes to at the yell from Phil and slips the photos and the bank book into the bag. There are other papers in the drawer under a copy of a boxing magazine. Callum blindly shoves them all in the hold-all too, before taking a last look around the room. Shoes! He needs to pack up some shoes for Ben too. He goes to the top of the stairs and calls down to Phil. “I just need a carrier bag. You got one I could have?”  
Phil, leaning with one hand on the bannister, almost looks like he’s going to refuse this one little thing, but after glowering at Callum for a second he huffs out a sigh and heads for the kitchen. Callum can hear him rooting around in a drawer and then he comes back with a bag that he holds out from the bottom of the stairs.   
“Cheers Phil,” says Callum as he descends the stairs to take it. He runs back up to Ben’s room and hurriedly crams the three pairs of footwear from the bottom of the wardrobe into it, then hoists the hold-all onto his shoulder and goes back down again. As he closes the bedroom door behind himself he feels like he’s finally closing the door on their childhood. Maybe, now he’s back in touch with Ben, they can forge a new relationship going into adulthood.  
“I really appreciate this,” he says to Phil, trying to ignore the way the older man looks impatiently at his watch.   
Phil leads the way to the front door, and Callum stops on the threshold. “You and Ben,” he begins tentatively, “there ain’t no chance -?”  
“Goodbye Callum,” says Phil. “Watch yer step with him, alright?”  
Callum is left on the outside of the door with a frown on his face as Phil slams it closed.  
At least Ben will be pleased, he thinks as he crosses the Square towards home. He’s almost excited at the reception he’s going to get. He always had taken pleasure in pleasing Ben. ‘Easily led’, his school reports had said, but he can’t see the harm in doing things you know the person you’re closest to in the world will like. He could have decided not to, but he chose to do the things he did, his reward the cheeky grin that would always spread across Ben’s face.  
Now, as he swings open the door to his flat, he hears rather than sees Ben. The radio is on in the kitchen and there’s a banging and clattering of pots and pans and the smell of food cooking. Ben comes to the threshold as he hears the flat door click shut behind Callum, and stares with undisguised curiosity at the bags in his hands. “Watcha got there? You bin on the rob, Mr Polis-man?”  
“Nah,” says Callum with a chuckle. “Bumped into yer dad goin’ down the road, so I thought I’d ask if I could pick up yer stuff.”  
He smiles widely at Ben, expecting to see a corresponding smile on his face, but he’s met with a tightening of Ben’s jaw and a hardening of his eyes. “You what?”  
“I picked up some of yer stuff for ya.”  
“I never asked ya to!” exclaims Ben. “Why don’tcha just mind yer own business, eh Callum?”  
And with that, he heads for the door of the flat and slams it behind himself.  
Callum stares at the closed door in consternation. Well that was certainly not the reaction he’d expected. He wanders into the kitchen to see that Ben had made a start on boiling some potatoes and carrots. In the oven when he opens it is a Fray Bentos pie, minutes away from being cooked. Still bemused, feeling like the rug’s been pulled from beneath him, Callum sets about draining the vegetables and getting a couple of plates out of the cupboard.  
He’s finished his tea by the time he realises Ben might have been upset because there’s no way back now. His belongings have been cleared out, and there’s no leverage he can use to persuade Phil to let him back home. Callum begins to see that he might have been a bit presumptuous.  
The radio’s still playing a couple of hours later as he stares at the blank telly screen, trying to work out how he can make things right. He hears a knock on the door and jumps up to answer it.  
“Forgot me key.”   
He stands aside and Ben comes into the room quietly, avoiding his gaze. He’s looking less angry, which is a good start, but his eyes slide sideways at Callum, his whole body language wary. He glances at the bags, still taking up space on the floor in front of the couch, and then sits down, staring straight ahead. “Sorry,” he says in a small voice. “I shoulda bin a bit more grateful.”  
“Nah, it’s alright,” says Callum, joining him back on the couch. “I get it. You was thinkin’ as long as yer stuff was at yer dad’s, you might be able to go back. I messed that up, I get it.”  
Ben swings round to stare at him with an incredulous look. “That weren’t it Callum! I know I ain’t never goin’ back there, and I ain’t sorry.”  
“But - ”  
“But nothin’, Callum. I shoulda moved out of there ages ago. I just…” Ben tails off, then heaves a big sigh. “Did he say anythin’? About me?” His body is taut, like he’s holding every muscle tight. He stares down at the floor as if he’s waiting for a blow to fall.  
“Nah,” says Callum. “He didn’t even ask how ya were, the old bastard.”  
At his words Ben visibly relaxes, and he grins sheepishly round at Callum. “He is an old bastard. Always was.”  
“Yeah.” Callum feels like a significant moment’s been averted, even if he’s entirely unsure what the significance was. “You get yer benefits sorted today?”  
“Yeah, gotta wait a week til they start payin’ out, but I should be OK.”  
Callum nods down at the hold-all at Ben’s feet. “Yer bank book’s in there, too.”  
“Mate, yer a life-saver!” exclaims Ben. He rummages in the bag and pulls out the wadge of papers Callum had stuffed in there. Immediately his expression hardens again. “You went through these, did ya?”  
“No,” says Callum, exasperated at his sudden mood swings. “Yer dad didn’t give me a lot of time. I just stuffed anythin’ I could find in there.”  
Ben looks like he’s not sure whether to believe him, but eventually the frown on his face clears. “Well, now I’ve got me bank book I can get some money out tomorrow, give you a bit for me board and lodgin’.”  
“No need.”  
“Yes, there is. I’ll give you a bit for me board, and by next week when I get me giro I should be able to move out, give you yer space back.”  
Callum’s heart falls at those words. “Don’t lose touch though, will ya? I’ve got used to havin’ you around again.”  
Ben stares at him, weighing him up again. “I won’t,” he says eventually, with an uncertain smile.  
“Tell ya what,” says Callum, an idea coming into his mind fully formed and totally unbidden. “We could clear out the box room. You could rent it off me. It’s only small, but it ain’t too much smaller than yer bedroom back at Phil’s. What d’ya say?”  
“Nah, I couldn’t Cal. I’ve imposed long enough. I -”  
“I’d really like it if you stayed,” says Callum. “We shoulda never lost touch in the first place.”  
Ben chuckles. “Yeah, but that don’t mean I gotta move in with ya!”  
“You wouldn’t be ‘movin’ in’ with me,” says Callum, his stomach churning in embarrassment at the thought of what the neighbours would say if that’s what Ben went around telling them. “You’d be rentin’ a room off me. An’ I bet I’ll charge a lot less than most of the landlords round here.”  
He sees that Ben is weighing up his idea. “Go on,” he encourages. “What’ve ya got to lose?”  
“’S more what you might havta lose,” says Ben, enigmatically. He’s still looking unsure, but Callum thinks he can see a bit of hope vying with Ben’s misgivings. Eventually, Ben says, “OK, let’s give it a trial, an’ if ya get sick of me you can kick me out, alright?”  
“Alright,” says Callum, “although I can’t imagine what’s so bad about ya that I’d wanna kick you out. You snore really loud these days, do ya?”  
The laugh Ben gives is forced. “Yeah, sommat like that.”  
Callum fixes him with a fond look. “You get cold out there without yer coat?”  
“Absolutely bleedin’ freezin’,” says Ben, with a shy dip of his head. “Although I did stop off in a pub.”  
Callum chuckles. “Yer an idiot.”  
“Yup.”  
“I plated up a meal for ya. Thanks for makin’ a start on the cookin’.”  
“Cheers. I’m starvin’.”  
Ben gets up to go and fetch his food. As he walks away, Callum gets a waft of aftershave. Not Brut.


	3. Beginning to work it all out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very little Ben in this chapter (blink and you'll miss him!) so as an extra special two-for-one deal I'm posting the next chapter immediately after.

“I just don’t get it.”  
“What don’t ya get?” asks Callum, holding out a hand to catch the Curly Wurly PC Savage has just thrown across the office to him.  
“Well, it’s not natural, is it? Two blokes together.”  
Callum curses inwardly. The upcoming raid of the club on Bridge Street has pushed consideration of homosexuality to the top of everyone’s thoughts in the station, and Callum’s getting a bit sick of it, to be honest. He wishes they could change the subject.  
“Maybe you should stop thinking about what they get up to in bed and start thinking about ‘em as human bein’s,” says WPC Carter.  
Savage rounds on her. “Listen, love, we mightta let people like you in ‘ere nowadays, but don’t you go thinkin’ you can have opinions.”  
“People like me?” asks Carter. “What’s ‘people like me’?”  
“Women. People with emotions and weird ideas about what’s normal.”  
Callum unwraps his Curly Wurly and shares a look with Carter as she snorts at Savage’s comment. He knows she’s more than capable of holding her own in an argument with Savage, but he’s ready to step in if he’s needed.  
They’re discussing the upcoming raid on the gay club. Callum’s pretty sure WPC Carter would share his opinion that it’s a waste of time. And not only that, it’s out and out discrimination. He can’t remember the last time he was involved in raiding a straight discotheque.  
“Guess what?” continues Carter. “There’s gonna come a time, very, very soon, when nobody’ll care about what you do in bed. You mark my words. It’s the state interferin’ in things that don’t concern ‘em; private things.”  
Callum wonders if she’s right. He can’t see it himself.  
“The state’s got every right to look into it if they involve kids,” says Savage.  
“Who said anythin’ about kids?”  
“Eighteen year olds!” Savage leers at her, secure that his argument is superior. “There’s eighteen year-old kids we pull outta them bars sometimes. You ain’t tellin’ me they know what they want at that age?”  
“Well let’s think…” says Carter. “If they was heterosexual, they’d be able to marry, fight in a war. Vote!” She points a finger at him in triumph. “They can vote at eighteen, so how come they can’t decide whether they’re Arthur or Martha?”  
Callum wonders if that’s true. He finds himself wondering if he even knows that about himself at his age, and instantly colours at the thought. Of course he knows what – who – he wants! He’s sort-of got a girlfriend. No question. He had spent the time just before this little conversation thinking back to the previous evening he’d spent watching telly with Ben though, both of them side by side on the couch, relaxed and at ease with each other. If he squinted hard enough, it’s the kind of set-up he’d want with a girlfriend. It’s not what he’s got with Whit, though. They just don’t seem to be on the same wavelength, but maybe that’s just the way things are with women. They’re a different species. Necessary, though. He can’t imagine doing with a bloke what he does in bed with Whit, so she does have her uses. He’ll have to phone her up soon if he doesn’t see her out and about in the Square, invite her over.  
He chews thoughtfully on his Curly Wurly, his treacherous mind drifting away to think about what it WOULD be like to be in bed with a bloke. He just can’t sort out how it would work. Why some men would want that.  
“What d’ya reckon, Cal?”  
He’s brought back to earth with a bump as WPC Carter tries to draw him back into the conversation, and his face reddens at being caught out. He’s sure they must be able to tell what he was thinking. God, if only they knew! What if Ben found out? Chances are he wouldn’t want to even consider sharing a flat with Callum if he knew. He’s the most masculine bloke Callum knows – apart from PC Savage – just look at what he did to that gay kid at school when he got too close to him!  
“What was you thinkin’ about just then?” asks Carter. “You’ve gone red as a tomato!”  
“Thinkin’ about his boyfriend,” jokes Savage.  
“Shut up!” says Callum, squirming uncomfortably.  
“That right?” asks Carter. “You got a boy on the side, ‘ave ya? Well good on ya, Cal.”  
“Don’t be daft,” says Callum weakly. “You shouldn’t joke about stuff like that.”  
Carter rolls her eyes. “Don’t be so touchy, Cal. Anyway, Charlie here was tryin’ to figure out which would be better. You can have yer pick of any bloke you want, as many as ya want, or you have to spend yer whole life with the same woman. Thoughts?”  
“That’s just stupid,” says Callum, still battling to control the blush on his face. “You can’t just choose like that, can ya? Yer either one way or the other.”  
“I’d go for one woman for the whole of me life,” says Savage. “Obviously. You can always get off with whoever takes yer fancy behind ‘er back, can’t ya? And ya wouldn’t catch me gettin’ in bed with another bloke. Yeuuch!”  
“Yer protestin’ too much, mate,” says Carter. “I reckon yer hidin’ somethin’.”  
“I ain’t hidin’ nothing,” says Savage. “I am a normal, decent person. Not like you, ya weirdo, with yer weird views an’ yer Marxism.”  
Carter spits out a laugh. “I’m a Marxist? Just cos I reckon we should treat people with a bit of respect an’ stop judgin’ ‘em?”  
“Yer a subversive,” insists Savage. “I don’t even know how ya got in the force with them views. Never mind the fact that yer a woman.”  
"You are such a chauvinist!” exclaims Carter, looking to Callum for support. He gives her a sickly smile and indicates the papers on the desk in front of him; reports to be written up that he’s well-behind on, and tries to remove himself from their conversation.  
“You do know we’ve got a woman prime minister now?” continues Carter. “Just you wait and see what she’s gonna do for the women’s cause!”  
“Oh!” announces Savage, laughing and looking to Callum to share his amusement. “Oh! Now I’ve heard it all! Yer one of them feminists an’ all, ain’t ya? Man-haters, the lot of ‘em.”  
“Well would it be any wonder,” asks Carter, “if you’re the typical example of a man?” She pulls her skirt tighter over her knees and swings her chair around to face Callum. “Luckily there’s men like Callum in the world, to give me a little bit of hope.”  
He gives her another sickly smile, but the conversation is ended abruptly by DI Thompson poking his head round the office door. “Havin’ a bit too much fun in here, are we?”  
All three of them sober up and stand to attention. Thompson gestures to them to sit down again and stares closely at each of them in turn. “Riiiight,” he says, decision made. “WPC Carter, PC Highway, come with me.”  
They follow him into the corridor. “Gotta job for ya,” he says when the door’s closed behind them all. “We’ve had a report of a crime phoned in. Vandalism at a shop over towards Whitechapel. We need someone to go out and take a statement.”  
“But that ain’t even our patch, is it sir?” asks Callum.  
“On the border, PC Highway. On the border, and besides which, it needs a bit of tactful handlin’.”  
“Oh yeah?”  
“Yep, that’s why I thought a woman and, uh… you, PC Highway, would be the best team to send.”  
“Sensitive job, is it, sir?” asks Carter.  
Thompson grimaces. “Sensitive and delicate.” He grins and gestures at them. “That could be yer team name, couldn’t it? Work out between yerselves which is which.”  
Callum exchanges a look with Carter. Neither of them are laughing.  
“Purveyor of dodgy literature,” continues Thompson. “Literature of a very specific nature.”  
“Porn?” spits Carter.  
“A sub-section of, WPC Carter. Probably not your thing.” Thompson looks furtive for a second and then says in a very low voice, “Homosexual.”  
Carter and Callum exchange another look. Callum wonders why Thompson would consider him the best man for the job.  
“Bunch of skinheads threw a brick through the window and sprayed some graffiti around,” explains Thompson. “Thing is, gettin’ inside that shop could be very useful to us. I wantcha to go along, listen to the fairy who runs the place, but while you, WPC Carter are givin’ it all the sympathetic ear, you, PC Highway will be perusing the products, get me drift? You see anything illegal, you report back to me and we’ll have ‘em shut down faster than you can say ‘how’s yer father’, alright?”  
“Uh, yes sir,” says Callum, his toes curling at the thought of what he’s being asked to do.  
“Don’t worry,” says Thompson, noticing his reticence. “WPC Carter here’ll protect ya.”

“What a bleedin’ waste of time,” mutters Carter as Callum manoeuvres the squad car out of the station yard and into the Walford traffic.  
“Does seem a bit two-faced,” says Callum. “Poor bloke thinks we’re there to deal with him as a victim of crime, and we’re actually treatin’ him as a suspect.”  
“It’s discrimination, is what it is,” agrees Carter. “Poor bugger.”  
She snorts a laugh as she realises what she’s said, and they progress in the traffic queues along Victoria Road at a snail’s pace before taking the slip road onto Whitechapel Way. They travel in companionable silence, the radio crackling into life from time to time with call-outs for officers to attend various incidents across East London.  
As they near Whitechapel underground station Carter clears her throat. “What we was talkin’ about earlier… I’d go for the second option.”  
Callum glances around at her and sees that she’s staring straight ahead out of the windscreen. He thinks back to what they’d been discussing. “Huh?”  
“As many men as ya wanted, or one woman for life.” Carter picks invisible lint off her black tights. “Second option for me.”  
“Oh!” Callum is taken aback for a second, but then realises that he’s less surprised than he might have been. “I think maybe I knew that…” he ventures. “Or, not exactly knew. I just mean… well, don’t take this the wrong way, but it ain’t a huge surprise.”  
“Nah,” says Carter.  
It’s more of a surprise to Callum that she’s been so open about it. He wonders why she felt the need. He pulls out to overtake a bus idling at a stop, and tuts to himself as he sees yet more National Front graffiti on its side.  
“I’m only tellin’ ya cos I think you won’t have a problem with it,” says Carter.  
“Course not,” says Callum. “None of me business, is it?” He chances a quick glance at her. “You, uh… you got someone? A… I dunno what you’d call it. A friend?”  
Carter chuckles. “A girlfriend, Callum. Yeah, I ‘ave as it happens.”  
“Well,” says Callum, trying to get his head around a woman having a girlfriend. “Good. Good fer you.”  
They smile at each other, and continue the journey in silence. Callum can imagine only too well what PC Savage would do with that morsel of information. He feels a little pride well up in him at the thought that Carter trusts him enough to tell him. From there, his thoughts travel on to DI Thompson’s statement that he thought Carter and Callum would be the best people to take on this call-out. What is it he saw in Callum that makes him think he’d be suitable?  
“I dunno why Thompson thought we’d be the best people to do this job,” he says.  
“Non-judgemental,” suggests Carter. “Or, if yer talkin’ to Savage, Marxists.”  
They share a laugh.  
“You really think things is gonna change?” asks Callum.  
“Yep. You mark my words. People like Savage are gonna look like dinosaurs in a few years’ time. The Marxists shall inherit the earth!”  
“Better not let Thompson hear ya say that,” says Callum.

The shop they pull up outside in Whitechapel is small and nondescript, situated next to a greasy spoon. The windows are concealed with brown paper, except that the one on the left-hand side has been smashed, with a huge jagged hole in the middle through which the brown paper flaps desolately in the breeze. Vivid red paint is splattered all across the frontage of the building. There is no conventional shop sign, just a symbol above the door. If you didn’t know what you were looking for, you would have no idea that it was a functioning business.  
A bell rings above the door as Callum and Carter enter the cluttered shop, and a brown-haired man in his late thirties glances up from where he’s kneeling on the floor, stacking books onto a low shelf.  
“Ah, at last!”  
“We come as soon as we got the call sir,” says Carter.  
“I reported it yesterday afternoon,” points out the man, wiping his hands on his trousers as he gets up.  
A second man is perusing the bookshelves on the other side of the shop. He glances round at them and Callum sees his eyes widen at the sight of their uniforms. He puts back the book he’d been looking at and edges his way carefully around them towards the door, holding himself tightly as if trying not to draw attention to himself. The bell rings again as he leaves, and then it’s just the three of them.  
“I’m sorry sir,” says Carter, taking the bookseller by the elbow and guiding him towards the cash desk so that Callum can have a look around. He crosses to the shelves where the recently departed customer was standing and runs his eyes across the spines of the books there as Carter takes down the details of the vandalism. He’s not sure what he was expecting, but it looks just like a normal bookshop. Rows and rows of books in sections according to subject matter: Fiction, Politics, ‘Gay Rights’ (whatever they are), Art. Next to the cash desk a notice board advertises marches and protests and fundraising nights for a range of lefty causes. It’s not a porn shop, as Thompson had indicated. Callum pulls a couple of books out from the Art shelves and scrutinises the covers. Imports from America and Germany, from what he can see. He flicks through a few pages, his face reddening at some of the images. Most of them are of classical Greek statues, but there are photos in the second book he looks at; naked men in similar poses with everything hanging out. Callum clears his throat and adjusts his collar, which suddenly feels too tight for some reason, and then puts the books back on the shelf before crossing to the Fiction section. He flicks through a couple of novels before alighting on an E M Forster. Callum remembers him from English lessons at school. He dips into it and reads from somewhere in the first few chapters:

“When the beloved has made him welcome and begun to enjoy his conversation and society, when their intimacy is established and the loved one has grown used to being near his friend…”

Callum snaps the book shut, his breath growing shallow at the thought of what might happen next. He had no idea E M Forster was that way inclined. He’s amazed that the bloke had the nerve to write about it. He glances over at the bookseller and Carter, still deep in conversation, and something niggles at him. He doesn’t know what it is, he just knows he needs to get out of there as soon as possible. Carter catches his eye and he slides his gaze across to the door, trying to tell her wordlessly that they need to leave.  
“So,” she continues, ignoring him. “What kind of stuff d’ya sell here?”  
The bookseller gestures around himself. “Books.” His tone suggests it’s self-evident. “Novels, political works; things you can’t get in mainstream bookshops.” His brown eyes flick from Callum’s face to his waist and back again as he nears them. “My clientele have very specific interests; nothing that W H Smith caters for, if you get my drift.”  
“Pornography?” asks Callum, blushing a little at the thought that the man might have been eyeing him up. His stomach fills with butterflies.  
The bookseller had been smiling at Callum to encourage him into the conversation. Now the smile vanishes. His eyes narrow, and he looks from Callum to Carter and back again. “Absolutely not. Literature, art.”  
“That’s what the blokes down Soho say about their wares,” points out Callum. “Some o’ that art’s pretty near the knuckle, if you ask me. You got the import papers for them books you’ve got on that shelf over there?”  
Carter is glaring at him now alongside the bookseller. “Right, sir, I think we’re finished here.” She grabs Callum by the arm and begins steering him towards the door. “You can get your insurers to arrange for the window to be fixed. We’ll make a note of the damage for our report.”  
“And that’s it?” asks the bookseller.  
“We’ll keep you updated as our enquiries progress,” says Carter.  
“Hmm, if they progress,” he comments, a sneer on his face as he looks at Callum. “I won’t hold my breath, eh?”

As they’re getting back into the car, Carter rounds on Callum. “What the hell was that all about?”  
“I was tryin’ to find out if he was legit,” says Callum, glad to be back on safer territory again. “Thompson said - ”  
“Oh, and you jump every time Thompson tells ya to, do ya?” Carter slams the passenger door shut, her expression twisted in anger. “He’s got it in for people like that bloke, cos he’s a nasty bigot, and yer just doin’ his work for him.”  
“That bloke coulda had porn in the back,” says Callum less certainly, taken aback at Carter’s vehemence. “That’s how they work, innit? Legitimate front with dodgy stuff goin’ on in the back.”  
“And so what if he did? He’s only gonna get in trouble if he’s sellin’ it to minors, and he seemed like a decent sort.”  
Callum shakes his head as he puts the car into gear. “He can’t be that decent, sellin’ the kind of books he had on them shelves.”  
Carter folds her arms and stares out of the passenger window. Most of the journey back to the station passes silently. Callum wishes she would say something, anything to fill the silence. In the absence of any conversation, his brain is replaying those words he’d read in the Forster book over and over again. He feels awkward and put out about something.  
It’s only when they’re waiting to pull out onto Victoria Road that Carter stirs. “At least ya wasn’t two-faced, I s’pose. Not like you was worried about before we went in that shop.”  
“How d’ya mean?” asks Callum.  
“Well, you was worried it was a bit two-faced, treatin’ that bloke like a perp when he thought we was dealin’ with him as a victim of crime. You certainly didn’t conceal the fact that ya thought he was a pervert.”  
“Come on, Tina, I never said that to him.”  
“Nah, you never had to.”  
“I was just doin’ me job, Teen.”  
Carter snorts dismissively. “Yeah, that’s what the Nazis said an’ all. I’m beginnin’ to wish I’d never told you about meself. I thought you was one of the good ones, Callum.”  
“I am! I ain’t gonna break yer confidence. I just.. I dunno. You’ve obviously thought about these things a lot more than me. I ain’t very switched on about this stuff.”  
“Well maybe you should educate yerself then.”  
Callum is beginning to realise he might have a lot of thinking to do about ‘this stuff’. His visit to the shop had unsettled him in ways he couldn’t put words to. Not yet.  
One thing he’s sure of though, and that’s the value he puts on his friendship with Carter. He doesn’t want that to suffer. He’s glad that she had felt close enough to him to trust him with a confidence. Maybe he should trust her with one of his own. Something that he’s only really now coming to realise he should come clean about.  
He waits for a motorcycle to pass the end of the road they’re about to turn out of, then presses down on the accelerator. He swallows thickly. “I uh… I don’t really know what I want, to be honest, Teen.”  
She twists in her seat to look at him. “Huh?”  
As the car picks up speed he shrugs. “I dunno. I mean, I ain’t sayin’ I’m… you know. Just, sometimes I wonder if there’s more.”  
“More?”  
“More than I got with me girl.”  
She ponders his words for what feels like an age, and he feels his stomach churning in embarrassment.  
“Maybe you should experiment then. See what ya like.”  
He scoffs. “Nah, couldn’t do that.”  
“Why not? Find a friendly homo and ask if he’ll give you a go.”  
“Oh my god!”  
She sniggers. “What?”  
“You put it so delicately, Teen. Oh my god!”  
They grin at each other, their argument behind them.  
“Well, at least we’ve sorted out that little question,” says Carter after a moment’s reflection.  
“What question?”  
“If I’m Delicate you must be Sensitive.”  
Callum shakes his head, remembering Thompson’s comment from earlier. “Oh god! Let’s never mention this again. Deal?”  
“Deal.”

Ben is out when Callum gets home that night. He’s left a note on the kitchen counter. Meeting up with mates. Don’t wait up!  
Callum’s a little disappointed. He’d hoped they could have another night in like the previous evening, watching telly and talking about inconsequential rubbish, anything to take his mind off the events of the day. The pictures in that book; the slide of the bookseller’s eyes over Callum’s body as he’d walked towards him. The butterflies and the prickles of emotion that had run down Callum’s spine. Put together, what they all might mean. He feels a little liberated, though, having shared his confusion about relationships with another human being. Having said it out loud at long last. A problem shared is a problem halved and all that.  
It feels quiet in the flat without Ben. Callum’s begun to enjoy his conversation and society. Their intimacy has been established. It just doesn’t feel like quite enough.  
He goes out to the nearest phone box and calls Whit. It’s about time she came over again.


	4. Making Snap Decisions

He’s got a day off the next day, the day before the raid on the gay club. It’s on his mind when he wakes, but other thoughts creep in and he immediately feels hot with embarrassment when he remembers the events of the day before. The bookseller. The weird feelings Callum had had. More than anything, though, he feels shame at the way he’d treated the bloke. Tina had been right. He’d acted no better than Thompson would have.  
There’s another issue niggling at him, too.  
Ben.  
Callum’s sitting on the couch eating his toast when Ben appears from his room, rubbing sleep out of his eyes with his hair sticking up in all directions. Something in Callum softens, feels immediate contentment at his presence.  
“Have a good night last night?” he asks.  
“Yeah.” Ben crosses to the kitchen to boil the kettle, still not awake enough to have a proper conversation.  
“Where d’ya go? The Vic?”  
Ben glances at him and then busies himself taking a tea bag out of the box and putting it in a mug. “Nah, nowhere you’d know.” He sees that Callum is still looking at him expectantly, and adds, “Bit further afield.”  
“Right.” Callum watches as he leans up against the kitchen counter and folds his arms. He notices the way the muscles flex in his forearms. “Didn’t hear ya come in, you have a lock-in, did ya?”  
Ben gives him a disbelieving smile. “Think I’d tell you if we did, Mr Polis-man?” He raises a hand to scratch his temple, and seems to relent, his tone of voice softer when he next speaks. “Nah, I uh…went on somewhere after.”  
“Oh yeah? Have a good time?”  
The kettle boils and Ben pours water into his mug, then mashes the tea bag a few times with a spoon. “Good enough.” He bins the teabag, tosses the spoon into the sink with a clatter of metal against metal, and picks up his mug. “Listen, I’m gonna go back to bed for a while. See ya later Cal.”  
Callum is crestfallen. He’d been hoping they could have a catch-up, given that he’s got nothing in particular to do on his day off and Ben’s unemployed. As the bedroom door closes very firmly behind Ben, he tries to decide how to spend his time instead. Try as he might, he can’t get that bookshop out of his mind. The way the bookseller’s eyes had narrowed when he realised Callum was regarding him as a potential criminal. He hates being misunderstood and in hindsight he can’t imagine why he even asked the question about import papers. Tina had been right. He was no better than DI Thompson, and if there was ever a man he didn’t want to use as a role model, it was him.  
He can’t get the images from the book out of his head, either. After he’d called Whit last night, he’d lain on the couch in front of the telly, oblivious to what was on, his mind full of the one image he’d particularly been struck by. He can’t understand why men would want to look at pictures of other men like that. He just doesn’t get it, but there’s no denying, his subconscious had connected with that particular image in a way that has him going hot and cold with shame.  
It’s never far from his thoughts that morning as he does a bit of housework and catches up with his bills. By mid-morning, Ben’s still not surfaced again and Callum feels like he’s going to go mad if he doesn’t get a bit of air. He shoves the cheques he’d written for his gas and electricity into envelopes, addresses them, and pulls on his coat, ready to go out and post them.  
As he’s walking down Victoria Road towards the post box, a Whitechapel bus rumbles past him before coming to a halt at the traffic lights. Callum passes it on foot and drops his bills in the post box as he gets to it, then keeps walking, drawing level with the bus stop just as he can hear the bus coming up behind him. On the spur of the moment he holds out his hand to get it to stop, and hops on.  
He must be an idiot. He can’t understand why he’s doing this, but it feels as though there’s something propelling his actions, something subconscious. He reasons with himself that he can always stop off in the café next to the bookshop. He doesn’t have to go in. He taps his fingers nervously on the back of the seat in front of him as the bus wends its way further towards Whitechapel, almost deciding to stay on as it turns into the road where the shop is located. At the very last second, he pushes the bell to stop the bus and jumps down onto the tarmac, his legs trembling, before it takes off behind him.  
The road is busy. It’s a weekday, so housewives are out and about, shopping for their tea; the next-door café is full, its windows steaming up above the gingham curtain that covers the bottom half. Only the bookshop looks quiet, isolated and somehow set apart in the middle of the bustle going on around it. The window has been fixed and the paper that conceals the shop’s interior from prying eyes no longer flaps in the breeze. The red paint is still vivid across the brickwork though, and now it’s been joined by more paint. Green, this time, spelling out a single, misspelled word, ‘Pervets.’  
Callum swallows hard, and only just resists the urge to look around himself before he steps up to the shop door, newly-decorated with a bright green ‘V’. He places his hand on the doorhandle and takes a deep breath. If anyone sees him going in… If anyone sees him going in he can say it was a welfare call. He was just checking whether the bookseller needed any more support; updating him on the progress of police enquiries.  
He senses he can feel the eyes of passers-by on his back, judging him. Condemning him as one of those filthy perverts the vandals were targeting. He tells himself not to be so stupid, and pushes open the door.  
Inside there are a couple of customers, both men. The bookseller is sitting behind his cash desk, poring over paperwork, and the radio plays quietly. It’s an oasis of calm; cosy almost. Callum darts behind the central bookshelves before the bookseller can see him, and heads to the Art section.  
The other customers are poring over the fiction, so he’s more or less safe here, unobserved. He runs his fingers over the spines of the Art books, kidding himself he’s just browsing, while all the while he’s painfully, intensely, aware of the location of the one book he wants to look at again, inching closer to it along the aisle. What the hell is he doing? This isn’t him! Nevertheless, he can’t help himself. He takes it down from the shelf and flicks through the pages, searching for the one image he’d seen yesterday, but finding his eyes drawn to other images; other scenes. He lets out a deep breath, realising that he’s been holding it in.  
There’s a footstep at the end of the aisle, and the bookseller appears with an armful of books. He raises an eyebrow as he sees Callum, a slight smile playing over his features. “Well, well, if it isn’t PC Plod!”  
Callum wants the ground to swallow him up. His face heats up immediately. He knew this was a stupid idea, coming here. Any residual embarrassment he was feeling this morning has just increased a hundredfold.  
“I, uh… just wanted to come and check you’d got yer window fixed,” he says, a slight tremor to his voice. The book hangs limp in his hand by his side.  
“You could have done that from the other side of the street,” points out the bookseller. “We’ve had more vandalism. You probably noticed. I didn’t bother reporting it though. I don’t hold out much hope that you’ll catch anyone for it.” He puts down his pile of books on a nearby shelf and indicates the book in Callum’s hand with a nod of his chin. “Good one, that. Depending on what floats your boat, of course.”  
“Yeah, no…I uh…this ain’t really my thing,” says Callum. “I was just…”  
“Just doing a bit of undercover work, were you?”  
Callum gives him a sickly smile. “Nah- ”  
“Because the thing is, you handle the goods, you pay for them in this shop. Understand?” The bookseller takes a few steps closer, his expression tightening. “I’ll bet they put you to good use down at the station, don’t they? Pretty policeman like you? I bet you’re one of their best weapons, aren’t you? Entrapment? Hanging around in park toilets to catch the poor sods who go in there to get a bit of company.”  
“What? Nah!”  
“Or maybe they can’t use you, because you might get a little too involved in proceedings.”  
The bookseller steps right up into Callum’s space, his eyes still hard. They dart down to Callum’s lips, and Callum holds his breath again, certain that the bloke’s going to kiss him.  
“I’m right, aren’t I?” continues the bookseller. “I’ve seen your sort before. Fascinated, even as they tell themselves they’re repulsed.”  
He’s close enough that Callum can feel his breath on his face. The space between their bodies feels electrified. He sees the guy glance down at his lips again, and closes his eyes, waiting for what he’s sure is going to happen. His every muscle, every nerve is taut. He’s not certain he would push the guy away if he does try it.  
“Five pounds.”  
Callum opens his eyes. “What?”  
The bookseller steps back and indicates the book in Callum’s hand. “Five pounds. I’ll wrap it for you.”  
He takes Callum by the elbow and turns him towards the cash desk, then follows him along the aisle between the book shelves, a hand on the small of his back. Despite his layers of clothes, Callum senses he can feel his touch burning into his skin.  
He digs out five one-pound notes from his wallet with shaky hands as the man rounds the desk, puts the book into a brown paper bag, folds over the end and sellotapes it securely. “There,” he says, handing it over with an exaggerated smile. “Safe from prying eyes.”  
Callum throws the notes down on the desk and hurries from the shop, the book clasped hard against his chest. As he wrenches open the door he hears the bookseller sniggering, and then calling after him. “Don’t be a stranger now, will you?”  
He keeps the book clasped to him on the bus journey back home, cursing himself for his stupidity in going to that place. He feels embarrassed, belittled, ridiculous. Underneath it all, though, there’s something else. Arousal. He can still feel the ghost touch of the man’s hand on his back. If the man had kissed him… Would he have responded? He doesn’t know what to feel about the thought that he might have. God, he’s in deep!  
At least Whit’s coming round later. That’ll set him right again.  
When he gets back to the flat, certain his cheeks are still flushed with shame, Ben is sitting on the couch reading the paper, the radio playing quietly in the kitchen. He glances up at Callum and then does a double take.  
“You OK?”  
“Yeah, fine.” Callum crosses quickly to the bedroom and stashes the book at the top of his wardrobe, then sits on the bed and takes a few breaths, rubbing his hands over his face.  
“Whit called round,” calls Ben from the other room. “Wants ya to give her a bell.”  
His words bring Callum back to the moment. He takes one last deep breath, and heads back out to the living room. “Yeah? She say what it was about?”  
“Nah. She didn’t exactly look full of the joys of spring,” says Ben, licking his thumb before turning over the page of his paper. “Mind you, that coulda bin cos I was here.” He smiles up at Callum. “We never really saw eye to eye, me and the lovely Whit.” He peers more closely. “You sure yer OK?”  
“Yeah, fine.” Callum is brusque, and he sees Ben’s eyes widen slightly, but he can’t find it in him to apologise. “I’m gonna go down the phone box.”

“Why is Ben Mitchell in your flat?” asks Whitney when she picks up the phone to him. “Actually, it don’t matter. I don’t wanna know.”  
Callum wonders why she’s got such a downer on Ben. “You never liked ‘im, did ya?”  
“Not really, no.” Her voice is hard.  
She doesn’t offer anything more, so Callum tries to bring the conversation back to the point of his call. “Why did ya want me to phone ya, Whit? I thought we was seein’ each other in a bit.”  
“Yeah.” Her voice goes quieter. “About that.”  
“Yeah?”  
There’s silence on the line. It goes on for so long, he starts to wonder if they’ve been cut off. Then she says, “It ain’t really workin’, Callum. You and me.”  
He winds the phone cord around his finger, lining up the spirals in a neat pattern. “Huh?”  
“If I’m honest, Cal, I never really got the feelin’ you was all that into me.”  
“Don’t be daft! Course I’m - ”  
“Yeah, see you don’t need to do that. You don’t need to try and make me feel better, cos I’ll be fine. I just wanted to let ya know, I’ve met someone else. I’m gonna move on, Cal. I think you should too.”  
There’s more silence on the line, only this time it’s coming from him. He stares unseeing through the window of the phone box and tries to work out how he feels.  
“OK?” says Whitney eventually.  
“Wel I s’pose it’ll have to be,” says Callum. “This new person, he anyone I know?”  
“Don’t matter.” Whitney clears her throat, sounding uncomfortable. “Listen, I just hope you find the right person for you Cal. Someone yer really into.”  
She hangs up before he can answer, and he’s left to unwind the cord from his finger before setting the handset back on the receiver. He stands a while longer in the phone box, breathing in the smell of stale cigarette ash that seems to permeate every phone box he’s ever been in, until a woman knocks on the window and he pushes open the heavy door and steps outside so that she can make her call.  
He feels numb, and a little bit panicky. What’s he going to do without a girlfriend? He’s never been good at making the first move. Whit had been the one doing all the chasing when they got together. He wonders if she’d done all the chasing with her new bloke too. He wonders how long ago she’d decided she was over Callum. It feels like he’s been on solid ground and now that’s been pulled away from him there’s nothing to stop him falling into the unknown.  
He glances at his watch and sees that it’s quarter to three. Just time to pop in at the Vic to buy some bottles to take out before it closes for the afternoon. Today feels like a ‘drowning your sorrows’ kind of a day.  
The Vic is quiet but full of cigarette smoke when he pulls open the door. He makes his way through the haze and asks for half a dozen bottles of beer. While he’s waiting at the bar for his change, it suddenly hits him. He’s not exactly heartbroken that Whit’s dumped him. Surely he should be more upset than this? He explores his feelings a little more. Nope, nothing really. Maybe the hurt will kick in when his brain catches up: he’s alone again.

Ben quirks a brow at the armful of beers he takes back to the flat. “Drownin’ yer sorrows?”  
“Yep,” says Callum decisively, setting them down on the coffee table. “That’s exactly what I’m doin’.”  
“I take it the call with Whitney didn’t go well then?”  
Callum throws himself down on the couch beside Ben. “She dumped me.”  
“Ah.”  
“Yeah.”  
“Sorry, mate. How ya feelin’?”  
“If I’m honest?” says Callum, realising that he’s going to have to get up again to fetch the bottle opener from the kitchen, “Relieved, more than anything.”  
Ben stares at him curiously, then his features soften. “Ah well. Plenty more fish in the sea, eh?” He stands up and crosses to the kitchen to rummage in the drawer for the bottle opener, and hands it over to Callum as he takes his place beside him again.  
“Cheers,” says Callum. “Maybe it ain’t sunk in yet, you know?”  
“Yeah, maybe.”  
Callum wrangles the top off one of the beer bottles and takes a long sip. The primary emotion he’s feeling right now is still embarrassment at his encounter with the bookseller. He takes another long draught of his beer, tipping his head right back and glugging it.  
“Well,” says Ben, watching him carefully. “For someone who ain’t that bothered, yer certainly gonna drink yerself to oblivion if ya keep that pace up.”  
“Yeah, that ain’t about Whit,” says Callum, before he catches himself. He is not going to divulge anything about his trip to the bookshop to Ben, of all people. He nods at the remaining bottles on the coffee table. “Help yerself, by the way.  
“Cheers.” Ben leans forward to open one of the bottles, his back muscles stretching taut under his t-shirt.  
“You ever had a long-term girlfriend?” asks Callum, realising as he says it that the seven months he had with Whit couldn’t really be considered long-term.  
“Me? Nah,” says Ben, sitting back again. “I get it when I need it, but I ain’t really into commitment. Ain’t never found ‘the one’.”  
He’s staring down into his beer bottle, looking mesmerised at the bubbles that foam over the surface of the liquid as he tips the bottle this way and that. Callum regards him for a long while, noting the faint freckles on his nose that someone could only see from this close up, the way the stubble is thicker on his jawline, the curl of his eye-lashes.  
“Yer a man of mystery, ain’t ya, Ben Mitchell?”  
Ben smiles round at him at that. “Am I?”  
On the radio in the kitchen, Waterloo Sunset by the Kinks starts playing.  
Callum leans his head against the back of the couch. “This song always reminds me of you,”  
Ben’s smile softens. “Yeah, and me of you Cal.”


	5. Wondering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friday Raid is here...

It’s cold in the van, despite the fact that there are twelve of them packed in alongside each other. They’ve been waiting a good half hour, and the windows are steamed up, the air humid despite the chill. Opposite Callum, WPC Carter is looking less than thrilled at the prospect of what they’re about to do. They’re parked up in the shadows of Bridge Street. Across the road, the door to The Bridge, the club they’re about to raid, opens every now and then to admit punters. Punters who know exactly what kind of a club it is regardless of the fact that, like the bookshop in Whitechapel, it’s nondescript and without a sign, just an anonymous metal door upon which punter after punter knocks before being admitted into the gloom beyond. Pedestrians drift along the road in ones and twos, no other destination likely on this street where all the other businesses operate in the daylight and close well before more furtive activities start after dark. Several of them notice the police van parked just underneath the Bridge and speed up, taking a detour past the club as their plans for the evening suddenly change.  
“Right, men,” says Thompson as the meat wagon draws up alongside them, ready for the arrests they’re about to make. Carter exchanges a glance with Callum and rolls her eyes. “You know the drill. Any drugs, anyone underage, anything illicit, bring ‘em all in. If in doubt, bring ‘em in. We’ll sort out the charges down at the station. Carter – you stay here and manage the meat wagon.” He rubs his hands together. “Right, let the fun begin!”  
They pile out of the van and the first officer to reach the metal door raps sharply on it. “Police, open up!”  
There’s a delay, and then the door swings slowly open. A man stands in the doorway, blocking their entrance. “C’mon man! Second time this month. Harassment is what this is.”  
“Stand aside please sir,” says Thompson, waving his badge at the man. “Sooner you let us in, the sooner we can get this over with.”  
Callum is at the back of the group of officers. His stomach is churning again, this time with a mixture of anticipation and distaste at what they’re doing. He glances back to see Carter leaning up against the meat wagon with her arms crossed. She is not looking happy. As the police officers start filing down the stairs into the basement club Callum sees men pouring out of the alleyway that leads down the side of the building to the fire exit and sprinting their way down the street to safety. He looks back at Carter, who’s also clocked them, and she merely shrugs her shoulders.  
There are still enough punters left inside the club to please Thompson, however. He grins maliciously, looking like he’s having the time of his life directing proceedings and barking out orders. “Everybody up against the far wall. Do not try and leave, and let’s have that music turned off please.”  
There’s a disco song playing. As they’d entered the dance floor had still been half full. Callum had caught a glimpse of two blokes dancing close together, far closer than the tempo of the song warranted. He’d felt his pulse quicken and his cheeks redden at the sight. Now, the music stops abruptly, and the lights come up. There’s a general murmur of dissent from the punters. One or two of them shout insults at the officers. A bloke near him blows a kiss at him, and laughs harshly as he sees Callum shift uncomfortably. A couple close by hold hands and glare defiantly at him as he clocks it. He glances away, unable to hold their gaze. Looking around, he sees a kid lining up with the others, and watches as he sidles between bodies, trying to get himself to the very back of the crowd so that he won’t be noticed. He looks young. No more than eighteen, maybe not even that. Not old enough to be in here. It seems that Thompson’s spotted him too. He advances on him, pushing men out of the way, and then beckons him with a curl of his finger. “You! Come ‘ere.”  
The kid tries to ignore Thompson, but Callum sees him start at the roar Thompson lets out. “I told you to come ‘ere. Do as yer told, ya little - ”  
The kid looks like he’s about to burst into tears. Thompson turns and catches Callum’s eye to nod an unspoken order as the kid nears him, and Callum advances to lead the kid by the arm towards the exit. He’s full-on crying now, but trying to keep it in, silent tears rolling down his face. There are hisses and catcalls from the other men as Callum leads the kid past them. From somewhere towards the back of the crowd, someone cries “Shame on you!”  
“Come on mate,” says Callum, pushing open the swing door that leads to the stairs. “Bit of luck you’ll be let off with a caution. Just do as yer told when ya get to the station, OK?”  
“No, you don’t understand!” says the kid as they start to climb the stairs. “My parents, they don’t know. They’re gonna kill me. Please don’t do this! They’ll kick me out, they will. They’ll disown me.” He’s sobbing now. He stops on the stairs, trying to make his body rigid so that Callum can’t lead him out to the meat wagon. “I only wanted to see what it was like in there. I’ve been wondering, you see… Please! My dad, he’s a vicar.”  
Callum tries to reason with him, feeling like the biggest bastard in Walford. “Well he’ll forgive ya then, won’t he? That’s what religion’s all about, ain’t it?”  
“Not for something like this.”  
Callum can’t help but agree with him, really. Nevertheless, he employs a little bit of force to get the kid moving again, and they near the top of the stairs just as another officer comes through the door below them with another punter. The kid is silent now, all the fight gone out of him and his head bowed. Callum replays his words in his head. I’ve been wondering. Isn’t that what Callum’s been doing too, if he’s really honest with himself?  
“Would they really kick ya out?” he asks.  
The kid sniffs and nods his head. “I’ll be homeless. I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”  
His words hit Callum in the guts with the force of a punch. Homeless because his dad found out what he was. Who he was.  
“You ain’t technically arrested til I read you yer rights,” he says quietly. “I ain’t gonna do that til we cross the road outside and I get ya in the van. Understand? It’s about ten steps across the road to the van. You get me drift?”  
The kid looks up at him through tear-filled eyes. He’s frowning.  
“If I accidentally let go of ya before we get across the road…well,” Callum shrugs, and sees understanding dawn in the kid’s eyes. “Don’t say anythin’. Just run. Fast.”  
The kid nods energetically, and they emerge from the metal door into the cold, shadowy street outside. Across the road, Callum sees Carter stir as she prepares to admit the first punters into the meat wagon. He loosens his grip on the kid’s arm. From the side of his mouth he whispers, “Now!”  
The kid doesn’t need telling twice. He’s off like a hare down the road. Callum makes show of giving chase, shouting after him, but soon comes to a stop, bending over to catch his breath. Funny how his legs don’t go as fast as they used to. He must be getting old.  
He turns back to the van and sees Carter giving him an appraising look. He winks, and she turns to process the next arrest with a faint smile on her face.

The rest of the shift is taken up with booking punters in back at the station and finding cells for them all. It’s pandemonium. Many of them refuse to come quietly, and Callum and his colleagues are subject to a litany of abuse and loud, sarcastic appraisals of their sexual prowess, their looks and their levels of suspected gayness. He spends most of the shift awkward and embarrassed and desperately trying to give nothing away of the turmoil he’s currently going through, and he’s exhausted by the end of the night, convinced life would be a lot easier if they just left the gay clubs alone. All that’ll happen is that a few people will be charged with low level possession of drugs and then let go. That’s nothing to the upheaval they’ll experience in their lives though. As soon as the papers report their cases in court, they’ll run the risk of losing their jobs, their homes, their reputations.  
He hopes the kid made it home safely. He hopes he won’t take any risks again, at least until he’s left home and doesn’t need to depend on his parents anymore. Being made homeless just because of the way your brain’s wired, well… it’s the cruellest thing anyone could do as a parent.  
The busy shift has prevented Callum from thinking about it in too much detail, but now he finds himself wondering. Ben had been made homeless. Abruptly, without any warning. Surely it couldn’t be for the same reason, could it? Callum’s never seen any indication that he could be that way inclined. Has he..?  
A quiet voice in his head reminds him of the night Ben had come home smelling of aftershave. An aftershave he didn’t seem to own.  
The thought makes Callum twitchy. He’s not sure how he’d feel about it if Ben was.

When he gets home, Ben is still up, drinking what looks like at least the fourth beer of the night, judging from the number of empties on the table in front of him. He looks a little bit worse for wear, so that Callum suspects he’s already been drinking elsewhere before he returned home.  
Callum regards him cautiously as he raises his beer bottle towards him in a mock toast. “Here he is! Our fine upstanding copper.”  
“Thought you was goin’ out,” says Callum, dumping his coat and bag on the peg in the airing cupboard.  
“Yeah, change of plan,” says Ben. He’s slurring slightly. “I come back home again. Had me plans interfered with.” He seems angry. It’s coming off him in waves. “I’m drinkin’ cos the world is a shitty place, Cal.”  
Callum can’t disagree with him. He sits down beside him and indicates the remaining beers on the table. “Can I?”  
Ben shrugs, and he takes that as permission. He opens up a beer and sips slowly at it, only now realising what a spectacularly awful night he’s had. Now that he’s started putting two and two together, he’s sure he’s right about why Ben had to leave his home. He wonders how to broach the subject. He doesn’t know what it means. If it means anything. For the two of them.  
“Good shift?” asks Ben.  
Callum sighs. “I’ve ‘ad better.”  
“I got no idea how you do that job,” says Ben.  
“Easy,” says Callum. “You just don’t think. Do as yer told and don’t think about whether it’s right or not.” He’s surprised at how cynical he sounds. “Until a bit of yer conscience shows up.”  
He’s certain Ben understands what he’s talking about. He wonders if he was there earlier, at the club. If he was one of the men legging it out of the fire exit. He glances sideways at him. He’s toying with the beer bottle in his hand, staring straight ahead. The silence between them feels like it’s made for confidences.  
Callum clears his throat, not looking away. “I uh… I think I know why yer dad kicked you out.” He sees a muscle twitch in Ben’s jaw. “I want you to say it though. I want you to tell me.”  
A sardonic smile flits across Ben’s face. “Sounds like you already know. Sounds like you’ve worked it all out on yer own.”  
“Yeah, but I want you to tell me. Please? I ain’t gonna judge ya.” Callum sniffs a quiet laugh that contains next to no humour. “I’m the last one should be judgin’.”  
In the silence that follows, they hear a toilet flushing in the flat upstairs and a door opening and then closing. Just as Callum thinks he’s going to have to be the one to break the silence between them, Ben places his beer bottle on the coffee table and wrings his hands in his lap. “I met a bloke,” he starts quietly. “We didn’t have nowhere to go, so he walked me home instead.” He stops talking again. Callum can see the internal battle going on within him. He stays quiet, not wanting to cause Ben to clam up.  
“We stopped just inside the back gate,” continues Ben. “He was givin’ me a goodnight kiss.” He glances round at Callum to gauge his reaction and then looks away again just as quickly. For his part, Callum is almost winded by the sudden jolt of arousal he feels at the thought of Ben kissing another man.  
“Me dad came out to put the rubbish out and caught us,” continues Ben with a shrug. “Chased the bloke away and then kicked me out. Told me I weren’t welcome there anymore.”  
He raises his head to gaze at the ceiling and huffs out a sigh, then reaches for his beer again.  
“So you slept in the park?” asks Callum.  
Ben nods.  
“God, Ben…”  
Ben turns abruptly to face him, his movement serving to break the heaviness of the atmosphere that’s descended upon them. “Weren’t all bad,” he says in a jaunty tone. “I mean, me guardian angel found me, didn’t he? I landed on me feet, thanks to you.” His overly-cheeky smile fades to resignation as he sees the concern in Callum’s eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll move on Cal, find somewhere else to live. I don’t wanna make things awkward for ya.”  
“Don’t be daft,” says Callum. “I ain’t gonna tell ya to move out. Yer me mate. Like I said, I ain’t judgin’.”  
For a second he thinks Ben is going to cry. His face crumples a little until he regains his composure. “Yer one of the good ‘uns, Cal.”  
“I ain’t so sure,” says Callum, remembering the part he’d played in the night’s events. “Was you there tonight? At that club?”  
Ben nods, and then looks away.  
Callum’s almost relieved. He doesn’t think he could bear to see any judgment in his eyes, although of the two of them, he’s the one he thinks deserves it. “Well,” he says eventually. “I’m glad ya got out OK.”


	6. Becoming More Insistent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In response to popular demand (well, two requests!) I'm posting chapter six early. Not sure that it's going to please you though, but hang on in there if you can!

“Here he is!” says Carter, grinning widely at him as he enters the office. He’s even further behind in his reports now. He needs to make serious inroads on them this morning. “What a hero!” she whispers as he takes the desk next to her.  
He gives her a look, as if he doesn’t know what she’s talking about.  
“That kid! You mightta redeemed yerself with that.”  
“Shh!” he says, looking around quickly to check no one’s heard her. PC Savage is over at the desk near the window, poring over papers with a frown creasing his forehead. He looks up and spots Callum.  
“Hear it got a bit tasty,” he calls. “Yer little trip to the friendly neighbourhood queers. Not as tasty as the NF march the next day, mind – we arrested nearly fifty of ‘em – but Sutton reckons one of the queers pinched him on the arse. What a pervert! Still, he’s up on a charge of assaultin’ a police officer now, so…” Savage shrugs in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture. “Boss is lookin’ for you.”  
Callum heart goes cold. “Yeah?”  
“Yeah,” comes a voice from behind him.  
He turns to find Thompson leaning against the door frame. “Sir?”  
“One question, Highway.” Thompson folds his arms and looks around the office, almost as if he’s checking to make sure everyone is listening. “You left that club the other night with a young man I’d just ordered you to arrest. Yes?”  
Callum anchors himself by leaning on the chair in front of him. “Yes sir.”  
“But it seems that when we got back to the station, said young man had disappeared.” Thompson clicks his fingers. “Vanished into thin air, poof!”  
Behind Callum, Savage sniggers in appreciation of Thompson’s little play on words.  
“Yes sir,” says Callum. “Resisted arrest, sir. He was just too fast for me.”  
“It’s true, sir,” chips in Carter. “I saw it all happen. Callum… PC Highway gave chase, but- ”  
“I didn’t ask you to speak, WPC Carter!” roars Thompson. Carter dips her head back to the paperwork in front of her. “Know your place!” He focusses back on Callum. “Now, the best I can say about this sorry little tale, PC Highway, is that you never submitted a report stating that’s what had happened.”  
“No sir,” says Callum. He gestures behind himself at his desk. “I’m sorry sir. I can do that now.”  
“The worst case scenario is that you got a bit soft and let the lad go. That right? Are you a special friend to the queers, PC Highway, because there’s a pattern emerging here, isn’t there? I ask you to dig up intel on that book shop, you come back with nothing.” He jabs a finger in Callum’s direction. “I ask you to arrest a kid, again you come back with nothing.”  
Savage sniggers again, as do a couple of the officers on the other side of the office, and Callum feels his face heat up.  
“Extra special friend to the younger ones, maybe,” ponders Thompson. “Like the fresh meat in particular, do you? Do I need to review your involvement in these community policing activities? Or in policing generally, perhaps.”  
“No sir,” says Callum, shaking with a mixture of anger and embarrassment.  
“I’m keeping an eye on you, PC Highway. Making sure you stay on the straight and narrow, you understand me? Now have that report on my desk in twenty minutes.”  
He turns and heads off down the corridor, leaving Callum to sit down at his desk before his legs give way. A couple of the other officers are staring blatantly at him. He darts a glance at them, but there’s no sympathetic smile from them. They aren’t checking in with him, they’re looking at him to see if they can spot anything suspect about him. He finds it hard to breathe. He lowers his gaze and concentrates on pulling out a blank report form from the stationery trays on the desk, his movements stilted from all the adrenalin coursing through his muscles.  
“What a bastard,” whispers Carter from beside him.  
“No idea what I’m gonna put in this report,” whispers back Callum. “I didn’t even get the kid’s name.”  
“Probably just as well,” says Carter.  
“Gonna havta watch our backs in ‘ere an’ all now then lads,” calls out Savage. “They’re gettin’ everywhere.”  
“Shut up, Charlie,” hisses Carter, her words drowned out under the guffaws from the others.  
“Yer blushin’ Cal,” says Savage, ignoring Carter. “I reckon the boss touched a nerve.”

Report submitted and the heat off him for a while, Callum stares into space in the office, toying with a pencil on the desk in front of him. He’s always felt uncomfortable about the raids they carry out, but now it seems like the general police approach to homosexuals is getting a bit personal. He’s offended on behalf of Ben. He’s even feeling discriminated against himself, even if he isn’t – you know. Or maybe he is. He honestly has no clue. He only knows that he’s been thinking about this stuff a lot recently, and it’s taken on even more significance now that he knows Ben is… that way. Even if that was a bit of a surprise. It’s giving their friendship at school a different hue now. The closeness Callum had felt towards Ben; the contentment he feels even now whenever he’s near, it all starts to look a bit different in the context of Ben’s gayness.  
There’s something else too though. The more he thinks about it, the more Callum realises that he feels rejected, put out that Ben never thought he could confide in him, at school or since they’ve been back in contact. Maybe Ben had never felt as close to him as Callum imagined. Maybe their friendship had been less significant than Callum had thought.  
“Penny for ‘em, sweetheart,” whispers Savage as he passes Callum on his way out of the office. Callum glares at his retreating back.

He’s exhausted by the time he gets home, his brain caught in a never-ending circuit of thoughts that just confuse and confound him. He’s just unlocking the door to the flat when Ben arrives home too, looking very pleased with himself. He waves a newspaper-wrapped parcel at Callum.  
“Fish n chips! Thought we could do with a treat. AND, I’ve made Angel Delight for afters.”  
“Oh yeah?” says Callum, feeling himself relax and a smile break out on his face, the way it always does when Ben is near. “What’s the occasion?”  
“I have got meself a job,” says Ben, looking proud and bashful in equal measure.  
“Yeah? That’s great, Ben. What doing?”  
“Cars. They was advertisin’ for a mechanic down at the garage on Truman Road. I walked in and – Bob’s yer uncle. Start on Monday.”  
Callum lets them into the flat and crosses to the kitchen to fetch plates and cutlery, taking off his jacket as he goes. “I never even knew you trained as a mechanic!”  
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, young Callum,” says Ben, following close behind him. Glancing round, Callum sees that he looks momentarily awkward. “Although, less than ya did, so…”  
“You’d better tell me then,” says Callum, only half joking. “I wanna know everything you’ve bin up to since we lost touch.”  
“Not much to tell,” says Ben. He rests a hand on Callum’s hip as he stretches past him to take down the salt and vinegar from the cupboard, and Callum lets out an involuntary gasp.  
Immediately, Ben steps back and looks at him reproachfully. “You sure you’re OK with me bein’ here, Cal?”  
For what feels like the thousandth time, Callum feels his face heat up. He attempts a reassuring smile. “Course. Come on, let’s get these chips ate before they go cold.”  
He leads the way to the couch and sits down heavily. Ben’s touch had caused another surge of arousal to go through him. He’s beginning to realise that he might have an issue. He’s beginning to wonder if it would be the big problem he’d assumed it to be. To other people, maybe. Not to him.  
Ben follows more slowly behind him, and gives him another searching look as he sits down. “You don’t need to worry about me, Cal. I ain’t gonna try it on with ya.”  
“I ain’t worried about ya!” says Callum firmly as he unwraps his chips , although the thought of Ben trying it on has his every nerve on red alert again and his brain asking peevishly why Ben wouldn’t try it on. What’s wrong with him, that Ben’s not interested? “I’ve just had a mare of a day,” he adds. “Tell me stuff to take me mind off it.”  
“What happened?” asks Ben, looking like he’s about to go and punch someone on Callum’s behalf.  
Callum feels pathetically pleased. “Me boss had a go at me in front of the whole office. Don’t matter.” He shoves a forkful of chips in his mouth, and then says through his mouthful, “Tell me why you never let on to me about you.”  
“We wasn’t in touch, Cal.”  
“No, before then. At school. You musta bin strugglin’ with it. Why didn’t ya tell me?”  
Ben rolls his eyes, as if the topic is too boring to discuss. “I weren’t sure… I thought ya might get a bit freaked out.”  
Callum stares at him in disbelief as he tries to avoid his gaze, bending over his food to spear a couple of chips.  
“Yer an idiot,” says Callum.  
Ben chuckles. “Yeah, probably.”  
“Did ya have anyone to talk to back then?”  
Now Ben looks uncomfortable. “Um…”  
“What?”  
“There was someone.”  
The surge of emotion that stabs at Callum’s chest right then is easily identifiable. Jealousy.  
“Someone at school?”  
“Yeah. Another kid. First boy I ever kissed, as it ‘appens.”  
Callum frowns. “Who?”  
Ben looks like he’d much rather continue eating his tea in silence, but he looks up with an effort. “Kid called Paul.”  
“That kid you beat up?”  
“Yeah. I ain’t proud of it. I thought he was gonna let sommat slip.”  
Callum thinks back to that day, to the week that followed when Ben refused to speak to him. “Huh.”  
“It weren’t me finest hour,” continues Ben. “I’ve regretted it ever since. I was just scared, confused.”  
Well, Callum can certainly identify with that. “I expect he understood that,” he says.  
“Well, we’ll never know, will we?” asks Ben, avoiding his gaze again. “He uh… he ain’t around anymore.”  
“Moved away?”  
“Dead,” says Ben bluntly.  
“Paul Stoker’s dead?”  
“Yeah. His parents kept pretty schtum about it but I reckon…” Ben draws his finger across his throat.  
“He topped ‘imself?”  
Ben nods, looking shamefaced. “Only a couple of years ago. No age…” He looks like he’s gearing up to say a lot more, but then his head dips and he mutters “That’s why I ain’t exactly proud of meself.” He puts down his knife and fork, food forgotten, and Callum regards him sadly. His hurt, even all these years later, is evident.  
“But it weren’t your fault,” he begins, laying a gentle hand on Ben’s arm. “You ain’t got no idea what led to him dyin’.  
Ben relaxes into him a little.  
“People react in different ways,” continues Callum. “Now you, yer a fighter, ain’t ya? You focus yer pain outwards. Maybe he was just the sort to focus it inward, an’ nothin’ anyone did coulda helped with that.”  
Ben peers round at him with wide eyes. “When did you get so wise, Cal?”  
“Ah, I’ve always bin a wise old owl, me.”  
Ben nods, with a faint smile on his face, as if he’s only now understanding who Callum actually is. He leans in slightly, and then seems to check himself. With a huff of breath he pulls away and turns back to his food. Callum is left to wonder what might have been about to happen just then.

Straight up, no more lying, he knows how he feels about Ben. Emotionally, he knows. He’s not so sure about the sexual side of things though. Could he consider going to bed with Ben if the opportunity presented itself? Just the thought leaves him feeling hot and twitchy. Embarrassed, yes, but something else too. It’s that ‘something else’ he’s tried to push to the back of his mind for such a long time. It’s maybe always been there though, in the shadows, just in the periphery of his consciousness. It just feels like recently it’s becoming more insistent, making its presence felt.  
He can’t sleep that night. His thoughts are racing. Eventually, he accepts defeat and sits up in bed, switching on the bedside light and gazing around the room, bleary-eyed. His gaze alights on the brown paper package stowed away on the top of the wardrobe. He should have got rid of it, chucked it in the bin on his way home. God knows why he didn’t. He gets out of bed and stretches up to take it down, then dives back under the covers, his heart in his mouth.  
He peels back the sellotape sealing the bag and eases the book out, the rustling of the brown paper loud in the silence of his room. He swallows. Part of him wants to throw the book on the floor and pretend it never existed, but he dismisses those feelings and flicks it open before he can change his mind, opening himself up to the other emotions that he’s tried so hard to tamp down for so long. Immediately his every nerve is on high-alert. He feels like what he’s doing is wrong, but he can’t stop it. He pores over the pictures, fascinated by the way the men are posing. He’s turned on by knowing that they’re doing it for the benefit of other men. For the benefit of men like him.  
He stills, listening out for noises elsewhere in the flat, thinking he’s heard a creak of a floorboard or the opening of Ben’s bedroom door, but it’s silent, the silence taking on its own character so that it almost seems to hiss around him. He turns a page and gazes at the next photo, feeling his arousal growing.  
It’s ridiculous. He wouldn’t dream of looking at women like this. It’s dirty, obscene. But he can’t stop now that he’s started. He tries to imagine being in bed with one of the men in the book, tries to imagine what it would feel like to be pinned down by them. 

He wakes the next morning with a strangely comforting sense of resolution. He knows what he is. It’s useless to fight it. One thing he can’t reconcile though is the way people talk about people like him. People like Ben. Like they’re some kind of threat. The jokes his colleagues (no longer mates!) in the police make about them, as if they’re somehow lesser than other men. He’s just him. Callum. Ben’s just Ben. Neither of them are what you’d call effeminate or predatory. They’re just decent blokes trying to live a life as best they can. You’d be hard pressed to find anyone who saw them that way though.  
He may have the theory sorted in his head, but it seems Ben’s been thinking about the practical side of things. He’s already up when Callum crawls out of his pit, taking care to stash the book away again before he leaves his bedroom. Ben seems awkward, overly-polite.  
“You OK?” asks Callum. “After last night? You was a bit upset.”  
“I’m fine,” says Ben, as if he wants Callum to forget all about the conversation they’d had. “You want bread puttin’ under the grill?”  
“Yeah, two please.”  
Ben does as Callum asks, but he stills as he’s putting the loaf back in the breadbin. “Can I, uh… Can I ask ya sommat, Cal?”  
Callum’s breath stops. This is it. Ben’s going to admit that he’s been having the same feelings that Callum’s only just beginning to accept. He turns to lean against the kitchen counter with a nonchalance he’s not feeling. He doesn’t know where they go from here but with Ben to guide him, he’s not afraid. “Anythin’.”  
Ben is looking pink-faced. He avoids Callum’s gaze.  
Callum waits, certain he knows what Ben’s next words are going to be.  
“I just wondered…” begins Ben. “You don’t have to agree, if it makes ya feel awkward.”  
“S OK,” encourages Callum, feeling butterflies surge in his stomach. A smile begins to play across his face. He hadn’t thought it would be this easy. He might have realised how he felt about Ben, but he had no idea how he was going to broach the subject; how he was going to make Ben see what he felt for him.  
Ben busies himself with checking on the toast under the grill. He takes a deep breath. “Say, if it ain’t on, what I’m gonna ask ya, but d’ya think…would ya mind if…”  
Callum chuckles. “Ben, you can just say it, ya know. I ain’t gonna freak.” He takes his courage in his mouth. “I sorta feel the same.”  
Ben stares at him curiously, but then his face clears and he rallies himself to ask his question. “OK, well… would ya mind if – only sometimes mind – if occasionally I brought blokes back here? When we ain’t got anywhere else to go, like?”  
Callum’s stomach drops. The smile vanishes from his face. “Uh, n-no, course not,” he stammers. He’s such an idiot! Of course, Ben doesn’t feel the same. To him, Callum’s a mate, nothing more.  
“You sure?” asks Ben, looking relieved. “We’d stay out yer way in me room.”  
Seeing the hopeful look on his face, Callum can’t change his mind. He can’t insist that Ben conduct his business elsewhere; yell at him that even by asking, he’s taking liberties, although it’s all things he wants to say. “S fine,” he says quietly. He feels a little bit heartbroken, which is ridiculous, but how the hell is he going to cope with Ben bringing home other men? Men who aren’t him?


	7. Avoiding the obvious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spam! and Pilchards!

Where there’s a will, there’s a way though. If Ben’s going to start bringing men home, Callum’s going to start going out more in the evenings. He’s been neglecting Stuart, so he starts to make Thursday nights when he’s not working ‘Stuart and Rainie’ nights, popping round for a meal and a chat, both usually equally bizarre. Rainie has taken up experimental cooking, and Stuart and Callum become her guinea pigs. How Callum doesn’t end up poisoned is a mystery, but he takes it all philosophically, reasoning that he’s in good training in case they ever go back to three-day weeks and he’s forced to improvise with no electricity to cook with, as was the case only five or so years ago. He starts meeting up with Tina for a drink every now and again, too, and against his better judgement confides in her his feelings for his old schoolmate, much to her delight. He just has to talk to someone about all this stuff, he’ll go mad if he doesn’t. If Ben notices that he’s making himself scarce, he makes no mention of it. Callum guesses that he doesn’t care, and tries to convince himself that he doesn’t either.  
He manages to avoid Ben bringing men home and starts to wonder if maybe he’d thought better of it. He hopes that’s the case.   
It’s been a couple of months now, and on the evenings when they’re both in the flat he still gets Ben to himself. He knows he’s in deep. He’ll hang on every word from him, feel suddenly ten times better at a smile from him, scrutinise him when he’s not looking, noting the way his muscles flex when he moves; the expressions that flit over his face; breathing in his aftershave. There’s no escape from this.  
He supposes he ought to say something, tell Ben how he feels, but he never quite builds up the confidence, despite Tina’s nagging and constant advice. It’s enough to live alongside him. For now.   
It’s inevitable that things change though. One Thursday he arrives back from Stuart’s at about half ten. The flat is in darkness apart from a sliver of light showing underneath Ben’s bedroom door. Callum doesn’t linger, he’s tired. An evening with Stuart and Rainie tends to have that effect on him; the mental gymnastics required to keep up with their random conversational jumps generally leaves him exhausted. He gets ready for bed quickly and is under his covers within ten minutes of getting home.   
There hasn’t been a single sound emanating from Ben’s room, but as he lies there in the dark, waiting for his brain to switch off, he hears a quiet moan. At first, he thinks he’s imagined it, but then it comes again. Immediately he’s on high alert, his heart plummeting. This is it, then. Ben’s finally brought a man home. Through the bedroom wall he can hear the bed creaking, the pace picking up. He can hear just enough to know something’s happening, but not enough to know exactly what, and it feels like pure torture. He holds his breath, every nerve tingling, half-hard, and then realises how wrong it is that he’s listening out for the sounds of his lodger having sex.   
He tries to blot it out by burying his head under his pillow but his ears are still straining for every little noise. Disgusted at himself, he throws the pillow to one side and gets out of bed again, pulling on his dressing gown and going out to the living room.  
The telly’s shut down for the evening, so he crosses to the kitchen and turns on the radio, tuning it in through bursts of static to find a station that’s still broadcasting at this time of night. An unfamiliar song emerges from the hiss and crackle, only to finish and be replaced by a DJ who sounds… German, maybe? No matter, Callum may not be able to understand what he’s saying, but anything’s better than the silence reverberating with the sounds coming from Ben’s room that he understands only too well. He leans against the kitchen counter and idly wonders if he could do with a cup of tea.   
He opens the cupboard to pull out the teabags and then realises what a state it’s in, jars and packets and tins all thrown in haphazardly. Well, there’s something to take his mind off the fact that he feels like he wants to storm into that bedroom and pull the mystery bloke off Ben in a stranglehold. He sets about emptying the cupboard of its contents and then restocking it in a more orderly manner. As he works, he realises he’s curious to see what kind of a bloke Ben’s brought home. What his ‘type’ is.  
He’s just finished wiping over the bottom shelf with the dish cloth when he hears the bedroom door crack open and a murmur of voices. There are footsteps and then a man appears in the living room. Callum glances round at him. He looks a little taken aback that Callum’s there. He raises a hand. “Oh, hi.”  
Callum nods a greeting with narrowed eyes. Ben can do better. This bloke is nothing like Callum. He’s old, at least thirty, dressed in jeans and a denim jacket with thinning hair and a pallid complexion. Callum would never have thought he was one of them… us…whatever.  
Ben appears behind him and his eyes widen as he sees Callum cleaning out the kitchen cupboards, but he transfers his attention back to his guest and ushers him towards the door. Callum can hear murmured goodbyes. The radio falls silent as it loses the station and in the split second before the static kicks in again he thinks he hears a smack of lips as they kiss goodbye. He ignores the shiver that travels down his spine at the thought. Then the door opens and closes after the bloke, and Ben comes back over to the kitchen doorway, fumbling nervously at the tie to his dressing gown.  
“Um… why you cleanin’ out kitchen cupboards at…” he checks the time on the wall clock. “…five to eleven at night Cal?” His attention turns to the radio as another burst of static interrupts the station. “An’ what the hell are ya listenin’ to?”  
Callum gives him a silent, reproachful look, and the penny seems to drop. He looks shifty. “Listen, I hope we didn’t disturb ya, Cal. I tried to get ‘im to keep the noise down.” He looks closer at Callum. “You OK? I ain’t freaked ya out, have I? Only, you said it would be alright and - ”  
“It’s fine,” says Callum firmly, trying to convince himself as much as Ben. “Just… just go back to bed, Ben. I’m busy.”  
“I could help,” says Ben in a wheedling voice as if he’s trying to make amends. As if he’s noticed there’s an atmosphere between them. He crosses to the sink to wash his hands and then stands next to Callum and picks up a few packets to shove them back in the cupboard.  
Callum snatches them away from him, flustered at his sudden proximity. “Leave ‘em! Yer gonna mess up me system.”  
“You gotta system?” asks Ben, looking at the cupboard critically as if he’s not convinced. “Cos you’ve stacked a tin of Spam with them tins of pilchards, and there’s another tin of Spam over ‘ere on its own. Should think it’s feelin’ very left out.”  
Callum knows how it feels. Nevertheless, he doesn’t quite follow Ben’s logic. “Left out?”  
“Yeah, it’s mate’s in with the pilchard crowd an’ it’s all the way over ‘ere on its own.”  
Callum stares round at him, and the cheeky grin on Ben’s face defeats his resolve. He grins back. Blokes might come and go, but he’ll always have this. He’s the one Ben shares his life with, for now at least.  
They work side by side, re-filling the cupboard in next to no time, Ben handing the contents to Callum one by one and humming along to a David Bowie song that comes on the radio.   
“Wouldn’t’ve thought that bloke was yer type,” says Callum eventually, when he can no longer resist the temptation to give his opinion.  
“Who? Wayne?” Ben pauses what he’s doing, a jar of pickled onions in his hand. “Least I think that was ‘is name.”  
“You don’t even know ‘is name?” asks Callum, appalled.  
“Nah, well I ain’t gonna see ‘im again so - you know. Don’t really matter, does it?”  
Callum takes the jar from him. “Why not?”  
“Let’s just say his conversation was a bit lackin’,” says Ben. “Not exactly intellectually inspirin’, if ya get me drift.”  
“Well why…” Callum baulks at saying ‘have sex with him’. He hunts around for another way of putting it, and finally settles on “…bring him back ‘ere then?”  
Ben stares at him closely. Callum can almost see his brain working overtime to decide on the best way of phrasing his answer. “We wasn’t exactly talkin’ a lot while he was ‘ere, Cal.”  
Callum blushes and concentrates on placing the jar of pickled onions just so next to the strawberry jam.

The next morning Callum’s tired and grumpy. He tunes out in the station canteen while Tina’s telling the story of some shoplifter she’d arrested the day before, and only comes to when he realises she’s trailed off and the silence is stretching between them.   
“Come on then, out with it,” she commands. “You’ve got a face on ya like you’ve just heard Thompson’s got promoted to Chief Inspector. Why so grumpy PC Highway?”  
Callum sighs, not wanting to get into it, but the look Tina’s giving him suggests she’s not going to let him get away with ignoring her.  
“Has it got somethin’ to do with a certain flatmate of yours?”  
He nods slowly, drawing patterns through some spilt sugar on the table with his finger. “He brought a bloke ‘ome last night.”  
“Ah.”  
“Yeah.”  
“And? What did ya do about it?”  
He frowns irritably at her. “What d’ya mean, ‘what did I do about it’? What could I do?”  
“Did ya tell ‘im how ya feel?”  
“I don’t exactly know how I feel,” sighs Callum. “I mean, I know I like ‘im. I don’t know if that means I wanna… you know… ‘n’ besides, I could hardly tell ‘im while he was in the middle of - ” He sits forward and looks cautiously around to check no one’s listening in to their conversation. “ - you know what.”  
She snorts. “Nah, that would have just bin awkward. Didn’tcha have a chance afterwards, or did the bloke out-stay his welcome?”  
“Nah, he went home straight after, an’ we ended up…” Callum tails off, not wanting to relive the events of the previous evening.  
“You ended up what?” Tina looks concerned. “Did ya argue?”  
“Nah… we sorted out the kitchen cupboards.”  
Tina’s look of concern changes to one of confusion. “You what? Is that… is that gay man’s slang for somethin’?”  
“Shhh!” Callum looks around himself again to check no one’s overhead her. “Nah, we sorted out the kitchen cupboards as in… sorted out the kitchen cupboards.”  
“Blimey,” says Tina after a moment of incredulity. “You two, yer goin’ hardcore with the foreplay, ain’t ya?”

The floodgates seem to have opened now that Ben’s tested the waters. In the next month there are two more occasions when he brings men home, neither of whom Callum sees because he stays resolutely in his room and Ben sends them on their way in good time before the last bus leaves from Albert Square. It doesn’t mean Callum doesn’t hear things, though, and he grows increasingly frustrated and miserable. He supposes one saving grace is that these men never stay overnight. There’s no awkward conversation to be had over breakfast the next morning. It’s only a matter of time though, he’s sure of it.  
Towards the middle of March, when the nights are getting lighter, Callum has a late shift and gets home just as Ben’s showing another one the door. A man with brown hair and brown eyes. A man in his thirties.   
Callum recognises him instantly.  
It takes the man a bit longer, but he stares hard at Callum as Ben introduces them to each other. “This is me flatmate Callum. Callum, this is Andrew. Callum’s a copper,” adds Ben as he hands Andrew his coat. “One of the good ones, though.”  
Recognition dawns on Andrew’s face. His eyes narrow as he refuses to look away from Callum. “Yes? You sure about that, are you?”  
Ben looks from one to the other. “You two met before, have ya?”  
“Yeah -” begins Callum. He’s interrupted by Andrew.  
“This is the one I told you about. He tried to throw his weight around in my shop. Accused me of peddling filth.”  
“Nah, it weren’t like that - ”  
“I reported a crime and he treated me like I was the criminal.” Andrew shakes his head in disgust. “I don’t think he’s any better than the rest of them.” He turns back to Ben. “You should watch the company you keep, Ben.”  
He shrugs his coat on and lets himself out of the flat, the door slamming shut behind him, leaving Ben and Callum to stare silently at each other. Ben’s looking disappointed and reproachful. Callum feels the same shame he’d felt the day he went to the bookshop. He’s so tired of all this. He just wants things to go back to how they were before Ben Mitchell came back into his life, forget all about everything that’s happened since.  
“So..?” asks Ben, folding his arms, his chin tilted defiantly and his eyes hard.  
“I’m goin’ to bed, Ben.” Callum says wearily as he walks away from him. “See ya in the mornin’.”


	8. Falling Out and Making Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are then...

It’s his day off the next day, a rare day off on a weekend, but where normally he’d have a bit of a lie-in, he wakes as soon as the watery sun begins peering round the curtains and lies quietly, full of dread at having to get up and face Ben. He should’ve stayed put last night and had it out with him then. All he’s done is put off the inevitable. He can hear Ben moving around in his room, and then the door opens and the sounds of breakfast being prepared filter in from the kitchen.  
This is it, then.  
He still can’t bring himself to face the showdown. Ben’s going to want to tell him what a bastard he is. He’s going to want to tell Ben how he’s in love with him. Trouble is, he’s kept that little fact to himself for so long, he’s not sure how to bring it out into the open. He waits another half an hour, paralysed with the embarrassment he’d felt at the hands of the bookseller, Andrew. The shame is no less now than it had been then. He curses the fate that brought the bloke into Ben’s orbit.  
When he finally gets up, Ben’s bedroom door is open. Peering in as he passes on the way to the bathroom, he sees that he’s stripping the bed. When he returns, Ben is stuffing the sheets into his hold-all.  
“Whatcha doin’?” asks Callum in a subdued tone, leaning against the doorframe.  
Ben doesn’t look round at him. “What’s it look like? Takin’ me washin’ down the laundrette.”  
“Ben - ”  
“I’ll start lookin’ for somewhere else to live, Callum. Give me a week or so an’ I’ll be out yer hair.”  
So it’s worse than Callum had expected. Ben’s not just disappointed in him, he’s hurt and angry too. “Nah! You don’t have to move out, Ben.”  
“Yeah, I do.” Ben turns to face him at last. “You might not like it, but I’m proud of who I am. I know what I deserve, and it ain’t disgust disguised as pity.” He points a finger at himself. “I deserve respect! I though you was a mate, Callum. I thought you didn’t have a problem with this – with me -”  
“I don’t!”  
“But ya victimise me mates, Callum!”  
Callum huffs a laugh. “Come off it! He ain’t a mate. He’s just someone ya picked up in a seedy club.” He plays his own words back in his head as he sees Ben adopt a face like thunder. “Nah, not seedy. I didn’t mean that, I - ”  
“He’s a mate, Callum. I’ve known him a while. Not that it’s anythin’ to do with you.” Ben shakes his head, his breathing heavy as he finishes off wrestling his sheets into his hold-all. He punches them down to get them to fit, looking like he’d rather it was Callum’s face he was punching. “He told me at the time about the copper who had a go at ‘im in his own shop. That copper sounded like a right idiot.” He glances round at Callum, his expression disdainful. “And now I come to think of it, every time I bring a bloke home, yer weird about it. I thought you was just feelin’ awkward, thought you’d get over it, but yer a homophobe, ain’t ya Callum? Can’t stand the thought of what I get up to!”  
“No, I - ”  
“I s’pose you tried yer best cos I used to be a mate, but you see people like me as criminals, don’t ya? Perverts.”  
“No, Ben. I don’t. You ARE a mate.” Callum can feel his frustration growing. Ben’s just not giving him a chance to explain. He thinks he’s got him all worked out and he’s so wrong.  
“Oh! So ya don’t mind me bringin’ blokes back here then? You ain’t got a problem with it?”  
“Yeah, actually, since you ask!” yells Callum, infuriated by the challenging expression on Ben’s face. “I ‘ave got a problem with it!” Adrenalin hits him with a thump as he realises what he’s about to do. What he’s about to say. It’s so abrupt he almost feels like he’s been winded. He takes a few breaths.  
A wry smile spreads across Ben’s face. He hoists his hold-all up onto his shoulder and picks up his keys from the bedside table. “Thought so.”  
He pushes past Callum and strides to the door.  
“Ben, I didn’t mean it like that! Let me - ”  
The door slams shut behind him. 

In retrospect, Callum supposes it’s just as well he didn’t tell Ben right then. Having a declaration of love yelled at you in anger is hardly any man’s dream. He’s going to have to adopt another approach. By the time he’s thrown some clothes on and got to the laundrette, Ben has loaded up a machine and is sitting, arms crossed tight, on the bench in front of it, his eyes fixed on the sheets as they whirl and tumble in the washer window. He looks tired, sad. A couple of other people are waiting for their own washes to be complete, a woman reading a copy of the Reader’s Digest and a bloke smoking a cigarette as he stares into space. Callum throws them a cautious look. Neither of them looks like they’re in the mood for witnessing heartfelt declarations of love between two blokes. From one bloke. To another bloke.  
Ben glances up as Callum enters the laundrette, and his eyes roll. “Get lost Callum.” Seems like he’s not in the mood either.  
Callum sits on the bench next to him, and there’s silence between them for a few seconds. “You’ve got me all wrong, ya know,” he says finally, keeping his voice low so that the other customers don’t hear him.  
“Not interested in anythin’ you’ve got to say,” mutters Ben, shifting position and grabbing onto the edges of the bench like he thinks Callum’s about to prise him off it. “Like I told ya, I’ll look for somewhere else to rent.”  
Callum sighs. This is not how he imagined it going. Serves him right for putting it off. “Listen - ”  
The woman who runs the laundrette appears from her office behind the counter, cigarette in hand, and calls across to them. “Oi! If yer gonna use a drier after yer wash, number three’s broke. Just waiting for the repairman to turn up, god willing. You’ll have to use one of these over ‘ere.”   
“Right,” says Callum in acknowledgment when it becomes clear that Ben’s set on ignoring her. He turns back to him. He can’t declare undying love here! He thinks carefully. He’s got to say something to make this situation better, if only to rid Ben’s eyes of that sad look he’s unsuccessfully trying to conceal.  
“Ben,” he begins again. “Ya know that night we cleaned me kitchen cupboards?”  
Ben is still looking upset, but a flicker of curiosity appears in his eyes. A faint frown wrinkles his forehead, presumably as he casts his mind back. He nods eventually.  
“What you said about the pilchards and the Spam?” prompts Callum.  
The frown is getting deeper on Ben’s forehead, the confusion growing. He turns to look at Callum.  
“Well, I’m the Spam,” says Callum, nodding his head in encouragement, waiting for Ben to work it out. “The spare Spam.”  
Now Ben just looks like he’s losing patience. “What the hell you on about, Callum?”  
“I’m the Spam that wants to be in the stack with the other Spam.” Callum huffs a breath, frustrated that Ben’s just not getting it. He glances around himself quickly to check no one’s watching, and then ghosts his little finger over the back of Ben’s hand where it rests on the bench. “I don’t wantcha bringin’ other men home, Ben,” he says in an undertone, “cos I want it to be…me.” He pulls back quickly, feeling certain that someone’s about to hurl abuse at him and rain down punches on his head. His pulse is hammering, and not just because he’s expecting imminent violence. He’s put himself out there, laid his emotions on the line, and it’s the scariest thing he’s ever done.  
Beside him, Ben stiffens. He peers at Callum, his eyes wide, and then glances back at the washing machine. His mouth opens and closes as if he’s trying to form words but can’t remember how. Eventually, he stammers, “Uh…this is really awkward, Cal.”  
Callum’s heart plummets. Ben doesn’t want him, he’s just embarrassed. “Don’t matter,” he says sadly, still trying hard to deal with the adrenalin that’s coursing through him now that he’s divulged his secret. He starts to get up, but Ben places a hand on his arm to keep him in place.  
“Nah,” he says. “It’s really awkward cos I’ve only just started the washer. I wanna talk to you about this, Cal, but I’m gonna have to wait here for another two hours til me sheets is done.”  
“It don’t matter,” says Callum again, pulling his arm from under Ben’s hand and darting another nervous glance at the other people in the laundrette. Ben obviously wants to let him down gently. He’s heard that tone of voice enough to know it. Not so long ago he was hearing it from Whitney. “I’m gonna go home.” He shrugs helplessly, certain that he’s messed things up even more now. He’s stuck in no-mans-land. He knows he doesn’t want to be with a woman, but the only man he wants to be with doesn’t want him. He’s no idea how he’s going to avoid being alone for the rest of his life.  
“Listen,” says Ben. “If yer goin’ home, stay there, alright? Wait for me, please? I wanna talk to you about this. In private.”  
Callum gets up. “I need to get meself some breakfast anyway. I’ll see ya later Ben.” He turns and walks away.   
Well, that’s that then.

Back at the flat, he stares into the middle distance as the kettle boils in front of him. It’s probably best that Ben does move out now. Callum’s embarrassment levels are off the scale and he doesn’t see any way of reducing them as long as the other man’s still around.  
What was he thinking? Why on earth did he imagine Ben would be interested in him? Ben has sexual encounters with men who know exactly what they’re doing in bed. They do what they need to do and get the hell out again, not even staying for the night. Why on earth would Ben want an innocent like Callum, who’s never really got the hang of sex with any other human being and thinks in terms of deep emotional connections? He sighs as the kettle clicks off, then makes his drink and takes it over to the couch. He doesn’t bother grilling any toast; he’s not sure if he could eat at the moment, his insides are twisted up so badly.  
There’s the sound of a key in the lock and Ben bursts through the door, looking like he’s been running. For a short second Callum dares to hope that he’s got it wrong, that the look on Ben’s face is relief that he hasn’t missed him. Then reality kicks back in. Why the hell would Ben be bothered about anything other than letting him down gently, in recognition of their previous friendship, even if that seems to be in tatters now?  
“I thought you was waitin’ for yer washin’,” he says dully.  
“Yeah, I splashed out seventy five pee on a service wash,” says Ben, his breath coming in gasps as he tries to recover. “I’m goin’ back later to pick it up, cos that’s how important this is.”  
“S’OK Ben, ya don’t have to say anythin’. I get it.” Callum throws him a wry smile.  
Ben folds his arms and towers over him. “Why was you such a git to Andrew when ya went to his shop?”  
Callum sighs and fixes his eyes on Ben’s stomach that’s still rising and falling rapidly as he catches his breath. “Cos I was nervous about bein’ there. Cos me boss – who’s the worst kind of bigot, by the way - was puttin’ pressure on me to find somethin’ incriminatin’. Cos I’m an idiot.” He shrugs. “Any and all of the above. Take yer pick.”  
Ben is looking at him appraisingly. It’s hard to maintain eye contact with him when his gaze is so piercing. Eventually he nods gently to himself and sits beside Callum. “So, Spam? And pilchards?” He looks like he’s battling to conceal a smile.  
Callum can’t see that there’s anything remotely funny about the situation he finds himself in. “Don’t laugh at me, Ben!”  
“Sorry! Sorry.” Ben goes quiet for a second. Callum’s got no idea what’s going on here anymore. He waits it out.  
“OK,” says Ben eventually. “There’s somethin’ you should know.” He darts a glance at Callum and away again. Now he looks nervous. “When we was at school…”  
“Yeah?”  
“When we was at school, I was in love with ya.” He twists to face Callum, looking desperate to make him understand. “I was so scared you’d find out and tell me to get lost. I felt like such a freak. I loved ya, Cal.”  
Callum’s pulse picks up speed. “And now?”  
He sees a faint smile spread over Ben’s face; feels Ben stroke gently at his cheek, and then Ben leans in and kisses him.  
It’s stubble and soft lips and the aroma of Ben, and it’s a little bit sloppy and it’s overwhelming and breath-taking, and - and Callum kisses back as best as he can, feeling like the top of his head’s just exploded. This is his best mate! Kissing him and running a hand over his knee! The man he’s known since they were both little kids.  
Ben pulls back and Callum chases his lips, until he remembers about the concept of dignity.   
“This OK?” asks Ben, his voice gravelly.  
Callum nods, entirely sure he can’t speak at the moment. At that, Ben smiles and moves in close again for another kiss, worming his arm around Callum’s waist and pushing him back onto the couch. They go beyond kissing; they’re in making-out territory now, and Ben is practically lying on top of him. Callum’s hard and he can feel that Ben is too. He’s stuck between loving it and hating it.  
There’s a knock at the door.  
“Ignore it,” murmurs Ben, leaving scarcely any space between their lips to form the words.   
It sounds again, and then they hear Stuart shouting Callum’s name. “Cal? You in there?”  
“Shit!” mutters Callum. Ben sits up with a quiet groan and they exchange a resigned look before Ben heads off towards his bedroom without a word. Callum takes a few seconds and waits until he’s decent before he crosses to open the door, adjusting his clothing as he goes.  
“Bruv, what took ya so long?” asks Stuart.  
“Uh, toilet,” says Callum. “I was in the toilet.”  
Stuart frowns. “You OK? Ya look a bit… feverish.”  
He reaches out a hand to feel Callum’s forehead, but Callum steps back out of reach. “Yeah, I think I might be comin’ down with somethin’,” he improvises. He’s sure Stuart must be able to see what he’s been up to. “I wouldn’t come in Stu, I might be contagious. Was there somethin’ in particular ya wanted?”  
“I knew it was yer day off, thought I’d see if ya wanted some quality time with yer big bruv. Thought we could go down the caff for a bite to eat.”  
Callum groans inwardly. “Yeah, normally I’d love that Stu. I just don’t think we oughtta chance it.” He starts closing the door in small, subtle increments. “Don’t wantcha comin’ down with whatever this is.”  
Stuart still looks concerned. His face lights up as an idea presents itself to him. “I could go down the shop, get ya some soup! Heinz cream of chicken soup, that cures everythin’. What d’ya say?”  
“Nah, really Stu, I’ve just had a Lemsip. I’m just gonna go back to bed.” Callum pushes the door even further closed. “I’ll pop round when I’m feelin’ better.”  
“Right,” says Stuart looking crestfallen. Then his face lights up again, and he points a finger at Callum. “You wrap up warm, ya hear me?”  
“I will. See ya Stuart.” Callum closes the door before Stuart can say anything more, and turns round to lean on it, feeling his legs shaking. The door to Ben’s room opens slowly, and he emerges to lean against the doorframe, hands behind his back, staring enquiringly at Callum from the other side of the living room.   
“He gone?”  
Callum hears the outer door slam, and nods his head. “Think so.”  
A cheeky grin spreads across Ben’s face. “Bit feverish, are ya?”  
“Oh my god!” exclaims Callum, his face heating up in embarrassment. “I thought he was gonna guess!”  
Ben saunters across the room, the cheeky grin still on his face. He stands in close and runs soft fingers down Callum’s shirt. In a sing-song voice, he says, “So, how long’ve ya fancied me for, Callum Highway?”  
Callum grins back at him. “Long enough.”  
“Yeah?”  
“Yep.   
The fingers that are tracing the line of buttons down Callum’s shirt begin their return journey and carry on over his collar, into his hair and round to the back of his neck. Ben pulls him down to his level with a hand on either side of his face and kisses him again. Callum thinks he’ll never get tired of this. He grabs him tight around the waist.


	9. Surprising himself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are coming thick and fast, but it's not my fault! I wanted to post them in a leisurely fashion but I've been bribed with Ferrero Rocher, so what can I do?

Tina keeps glancing round at him from where she’s seated a row in front of him to his right. DI Thompson is leading the briefing for the shift, wisecracking his way though a list of perps to look out for. The other officers are lapping it up, chuckling appreciatively at every lame joke. Thompson mentions keeping a special eye on the park that’s being used as a suspected cruising ground. Around Callum, the officers tut and shift restlessly, unable to contain their disgust.  
“And finally,” announces Thompson. “It’s that time of the month again lads.” He waits for the chuckles and cat-calls to die down. “It’s time we visited our friendly neighbourhood queers again.”  
Callum stiffens and glances quickly around himself.  
“Bridge Street club has been missing us, lads. We’re raiding it again on Friday. Anyone on duty that night will be expected to be in attendance, and we want a decent number of arrests this time. We’ve gotta send ‘em the message that we don’t want their sort on our patch. Agreed?”  
“Agreed!” yell the men around Callum. He sees from the corner of his eye that Tina’s staring across at him again and sinks further into his seat. Thankfully he’s not on duty Friday night, but it just isn’t right, what they’re doing. He’s beginning to recognise the reality of being a man in love with another man. The world’s not made for his sort. He’s beginning to realise, the mixture of love and hate he was feeling yesterday? It wasn’t about anything Ben was doing. No, he can safely say he loved that. The other feelings only come when he realises what the rest of the world would think about it.  
“So?” asks Tina as they head out of the briefing room and down the corridor to the locker room.   
“It’s a travesty,” says Callum. “Someone should stand up against it.”  
Tina looks at him coolly. “They should, but I weren’t talkin’ about that. You, Callum Highway, have bin grinnin’ to yerself all mornin’. If I didn’t know better I’d think a certain flatmate had come to his senses at last.”  
He grins down at his shoes and then she squeals. “No! Seriously?”  
“Shh!” He takes a look around them. A few officers glance curiously at them, but they tend to be left alone these days. Callum’s status in the station has subtly shifted in the last few months. Whereas before he’d been one of the lads by default, now he (and Tina) are seen as the freak squad and most officers steer well clear of them.  
“When?” asks Tina.   
“Yesterday,” says Callum.  
“And?”  
He chuckles. “’And’ what?”  
“Was it all you expected?”  
“So far, yeah.”  
She squeals again, quieter this time.   
“We ain’t – you know – yet, but we’ve done other stuff an’, yeah, it was…smashin’.”  
“Excellent news,” says Tina. “This means I can recruit ya for me new group I’m settin’ up.”  
“What group?”  
“I am gonna set up a lesbian and gay police officers’ support group,” she announces. “ S about time we all banded together and told the idiots in this station enough’s enough. You in?”  
“Blimey Teen, I ain’t even got me community membership card yet,” says Callum, hoping a joke will encourage her to change the subject. There’s no way he’s declaring himself to the rest of the officers they work with.  
“S’cuse me ladies,” cuts in PC Savage. “I hate to break up yer little mothers’ meetin’ but I need to get to me locker. Some of us ‘ave got work to do.” He turns to Callum. “And no eyein’ up me bum, ya hear me?”  
“Your bum ain’t nothin’ special, mate,” says Tina as Callum battles the blush that threatens to spread across his face and hopes to god Savage didn’t overhear him. “Decidedly saggy, I’d say.”  
A few of the men around them laugh quietly. “Fuck off!” says Savage.

Yesterday had been taken up with more making out and whispered confidences between Callum and Ben, a resetting of their relationship and shared wonder at the events that had brought them to this point. As with all new lovers, every high and low took on a heightened drama, so that when Ben finally decided he ought to go back to the laundrette to retrieve his sheets, it had felt like they were being wrenched apart, never to meet again. The twenty minutes it had taken him to return had felt like a lifetime to Callum.  
“Listen,” Ben had said when he got back. “We’ll go at your pace, yeah? I mean, I know this is all a bit overwhelmin’. I don’t wanna push you into somethin’ ya don’t wanna do yet, so you just give me the nod when yer ready, OK?”

The day after Callum’s little chat with Tina, he wakes early. He and Ben are still sleeping in separate rooms until Callum feels ready for whatever’s next, but this morning he misses the proximity of him immediately.  
He slides out of bed and pads to the bathroom to wash and brush his teeth, then goes into the kitchen to make a cuppa. There’s no sound yet from Ben’s room, but he knows he’s going to have to be up soon for work, just like Callum. Callum hesitates a second, then pulls down another mug from the cupboard and throws a teabag into it.  
When he cracks open the door to Ben’s bedroom and places their mugs of tea on the bedside table he hears movement in the gloom as Ben turns over in bed.   
“Mornin’,” he whispers.  
“Mm, mornin’,” mumbles Ben.  
Callum crosses to the window to pull back the curtains to give them a little more light. It’s a grey, streaky dawn, the sun not yet high enough to determine what kind of a day it’s going to be. Turning, Callum sees that Ben is looking sleep-soft and smiling up at him blearily.  
“This is a nice surprise,” he mumbles. He clears his throat and sits up. “Very nice view to wake up to!” He reaches across and picks up his tea, then takes a sip or two and groans in appreciation.  
“Just thought I oughtta wake you up for work,” says Callum, feeling suddenly bashful.  
Ben clears his throat again, still gearing up into the day. “Yeah? Just for work?”  
He fixes Callum with a cheeky grin, which does nothing to reduce his levels of bashfulness, and in a swift movement, he raises the covers on one side of the bed. “Wanna get in a while?”  
Callum goes lightheaded. “Work, Ben,” he says, reluctantly trying to act responsibly.  
“Yeah, we’ve got a bit of time yet though, ain’t we? A five minute snuggle won’t hurt.”  
He makes a compelling case, and the soft, beseeching look he’s throwing Callum is only serving to reinforce it. Callum rounds the bed and slips in beside him. The bed is warm and so is Ben. As Callum lies back, rigid with nerves, Ben places his tea back on the table and then lies back down, throwing an arm around his waist and resting his head on his chest. Not that Callum’s ever really thought about it, but he supposes he’d assumed Ben would be the one holding him in his arms, taking control, but it seems that Ben’s got a thing for being looked after by the men in his life. Who’d have thought it? He wonders if that makes Ben more or less gay than him as he tries to relax and tucks his arm around Ben’s shoulders. He’s still working all this stuff out.  
“Alright?” ask Ben in a still-sleepy murmur.  
“Yeah, perfect,” says Callum, kissing the top of his head.  
They lie in silence for a while, and then Callum feels Ben twisting his fingers in the hem of his t-shirt. “D’ya think maybe this could come off?”  
It seems that Callum can deny him nothing. He sits up and pulls off his t-shirt as Ben does the same, and then Ben’s tugging at the waistband of his boxers, too. He stops to give Callum an enquiring look, and when he sees no opposition, wrangles them quickly down Callum’s legs and throws them out from under the bedclothes. He does the same with his own and suddenly they’re skin to skin and Callum is finding it hard to breathe. He focusses his eyes on the underwear now tossed into a crumpled pile on the carpet, and tries not to feel overwhelmed. There’s just so much skin! Warm, surprisingly soft, skin.   
Ben plants tiny kisses on his neck, tracing the line of his jaw and going lower, over his shoulder and chest until his lips are on Callum’s left nipple. He raises his head to check in with him. “OK?”  
Callum just about manages to huff out a breathless “yeah”.  
“Can I...?” Ben closes his fingers around Callum’s cock. It’s already hard and leaking, to Callum’s embarrassment. “You just lie back and enjoy it, alright, Cal? I just wanna make ya feel good.”  
Callum nods, sure he’s nowhere near ready for whatever’s coming next but equally certain that he wants it like he’s never wanted anything before in his life. Ben shrugs the covers off them and crouches over Callum, taking him into his mouth as he begins jacking himself off at the same time.  
The sensations! Callum had thought it was hard to breathe before, but now he can hear himself taking in choking gasps as Ben’s mouth works wonders on him. It’s not just the feel of what he’s doing to him; it’s the sight, too. Ben is getting off on what he’s doing as much as Callum is, and Callum could never have imagined that a man would find so much enjoyment in doing THAT to another man. He can feel the waves of pleasure building in him.  
They come at almost the same time, and Ben glances up at him as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks a bit worried. “You OK? I ain’t put you off?”  
“That,” exclaims Callum, still trying to catch his breath. “That, was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He feels deliciously dirty as he says it.  
Ben crawls back up the bed looking smug and takes another couple of sips of his tea to wash his mouth out while Callum focusses on trying to regain control of all his muscles. “Blimey!” he manages to blurt out eventually.  
Ben smiles proudly. “That good, eh?”  
“The best!” exclaims Callum. “Ya’ve spoilt me for anyone else ever again.”  
“I should hope so too,” says Ben, pulling the covers back over them and lying down close beside him again. “Wouldn’t wantcha doin’ any comparison shoppin’.”  
“Is that it, then?” asks Callum. He sees Ben raise his head with a frown and hurries to explain himself. “I mean, you’ve had all them different men, an’ I know I ain’t had any experience, but are we gonna be… you know…”  
“Exclusive?” asks Ben. “I hope so, if ya wanna be.”  
“I do,” says Callum. He rolls over and kisses Ben. Hard.

He’s surprising himself in all sorts of novel ways these days. Ten minutes later he unearths hitherto concealed reserves of will-power as they finally prise themselves apart from each other and make a monumental effort to prepare for the day. They get ready for work side by side, orbiting around each other in the kitchen with a soft hand on a hip or the small of the back every time they come close, stopping every now and again for more kisses. Dressed, fed and watered, and only about fifteen minutes behind schedule, they pause at the door for one last lingering snog. Callum thinks this could be his new favourite thing, and he doesn’t ever want to stop.   
“You comin’ straight home tonight?” he asks.  
“What d’you think?” asks Ben. “What could possibly be more urgent than gettin’ back ‘ere to you?”  
Callum grins at him, brushing the hair back from his forehead as he fixes his smile in his mind’s eye, to sustain him through the day ahead.   
“We gonna get straight back into bed when we get ‘ome?” asks Ben.  
“Odds are high,” says Callum, trying and failing to play it cool.  
“Right, I’ll run back then,” says Ben, no more cool than him. “See ya tonight gorgeous.”  
It feels a bit weird, hearing Ben use that word about him, but Callum ignores the residual unease that prickles at the back of his mind. He gives Ben one last kiss and then picks up his rucksack and prepares to leave. They step through the door together, transforming instantly from lovers to acquaintances as the outside world closes in once more.


	10. Venturing Out

As he patrols East London that day, Callum can’t help but feel he’s seeing the world through new eyes. He’s not the same man who patrolled these streets the last time he was on shift. He wonders if the people swarming past him can tell what happened to him that morning in bed. He wonders how many of them would be appalled; how many would even care; how many would be pleased for him.  
The day is agony. Callum misses Ben with an ache that gnaws at his insides. He can’t keep his mind on the job at hand and the hours seem to stretch to three times their normal length. When, finally, it’s time to start heading back to the station to clock off, he’s never moved so fast in his life. If anyone wants to stop him and report a crime, they’re out of luck. He’s got other priorities. He’d thought Ben was being a bit over the top, joking that he’d run back home to Callum that night, but turns out that’s more or less what Callum does.  
When he gets there, though, he’s disappointed that Ben’s nowhere to be seen. Maybe he’s lost interest then. Maybe he reflected on Andrew’s words and changed his mind. Trouble is, now that he’s had a taste of what it could be like with Ben, Callum doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to settle for just being his friend again.   
The more he thinks as he potters around in the kitchen, throwing together some food to take his mind off the fact that Ben’s missing, the more Callum realises he’s made a huge mistake. He’s messed up their friendship, and for what? A quick fumble?  
The sound of Ben’s key in the lock thirty minutes after Callum got home has all those thoughts fleeing from his mind instantly, to be replaced with relief.   
“Ello ‘ello ‘ello, what’s all this then?” asks Ben as he drops his coat on the couch and advances to the kitchen doorway. “Sexy polis-man in me kitchen, is it?”  
Callum’s still not sure how to respond to him when he talks like that. It still makes him feel a bit weird, the jump from old schoolmates to…whatever this is now…a bit too big for his mind to deal with straight away. He smiles silently instead.  
“Sorry I’m late,” says Ben. “Some bloke brought in a Ford Cortina, wanted it finished before we shut up shop. Turns out it was a problem with the choke an’,” he shrugs in a ‘what can you do?’ kind of way. “Bleedin’ nightmare, they are.”  
“Get it sorted?” asks Callum.  
“Yeah, eventually.” Ben smiles across at him, seemingly waiting for something. Eventually, he indicates the bathroom with a jab of his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll go an’ wash up. Me hands still stink of grease.”  
“I’m makin’ bangers and Smash,” says Callum. “If ya want some.”  
“Food of princes, that is,” calls Ben as he heads for the bathroom, “cheers.”

They eat sitting at the far ends of the couch. It seems since they’ve been apart a shyness has developed between them, and Callum’s not sure what to make of it.  
When they’ve finished and the plates are soaking in the sink, and Callum comes back into the living room to see that Ben’s turned the telly on, he feels even more confused. Ben seems like he’s not quite at ease, his muscles taut as if he’s awaiting some kind of impact. He smiles up at Callum as he crosses to join him back on the couch and they watch Magnus Magnusson interrogate an overweight housewife on the novels of Evelyn Waugh on Mastermind, making a show of focussing on the questions and getting none right, while all the while it feels like there’s a huge awkward cloud in the room.  
Callum can’t fathom it. He wants them to be like they were yesterday and this morning. He ponders it as, every now and again from the corner of his eye, he sees Ben throw a quick glance his way. The specialist round gives way to general knowledge, and he decides he’s going to have to make the first move. With his heart in his mouth, he reaches out an arm and strokes a soft hand over Ben’s knee, still staring straight ahead at the telly. It feels like he’s making a huge transgression by doing it. He still expects the entire population of the Square outside to break the door down and show him just how disgusted they are by him.  
“James Callaghan!” announces Ben in answer to a question about who Margaret Thatcher defeated at the last election, the first question he’s got right. “Bit easy,” he comments. “He’ll be asking her what day it is next.” He takes Callum’s hand in his own, and for a second Callum thinks he’s going to push it away, but he toys with his fingers absentmindedly.   
“Which team won the FA cup final for the fourth time in 1977?” asks Magnus. “Arsenal,” says Ben. “Leeds United,” says the contestant. “No, Manchester United,” says Magnus. Ben tuts. “Don’t know the first thing about football, to be honest with ya.”  
He clears his throat.  
“Listen Cal. I was thinkin’ today.”  
“Yeah?” asks Callum, fearing the worst.  
“Yeah, this mornin’, I uh… I think I ought to apologise to ya.” He strokes the back of Callum’s hand with his thumb. “I promised ya I’d take this at your pace, an’ then I went an’ did… that. I got a bit carried away. Sorry.”  
“You don’t havta apologise!” exclaims Callum, relief flooding through him.  
“Yeah, I do,” says Ben firmly. “I know this all new to ya, I probably sent ya off to work wonderin’ what the hell you’d got yerself into.”  
Callum smiles gently at him. “Ben, ya sent me off to work wonderin’ when the hell that was likely to happen again! An’ hopin’ it’d be soon. Ya don’t need to worry. I’ll tell ya if I ain’t comfortable with anythin’, alright?”  
The smile Ben gives him is full of relief. Callum sees his entire body relax as he edges closer along the couch. “Well in that case,” he says, his customary cheekiness returning, “I’ve bin desperate to snog ya all evenin’. That be OK?”  
“Course,” says Callum, as on the telly Magnus Magnusson announces that with twenty-two points and no passes, Eileen from Bolton is the winner. Callum bets she’s not half as excited as he is right now with just the one pass.

“So,” says Ben a couple of hours later when he’s sitting on the kitchen counter next to the kettle as Callum makes them both a cuppa. “I wanna take ya out, show you off to me mates.”  
“Yeah?” asks Callum, not sure he’s quite ready for that; letting the outside world see him for who he really is seems like a big jump from what they’ve got right now. “That’d be a bit scary.”  
“You think?” asks Ben.   
“Andrew be there, would he?” asks Callum, realising he’s just as worried about meeting the man again as he is being spotted going into a gay bar.  
“Might be.” Ben nudges him with his shoulder. “Give the two of you a chance to clear the air, wouldn’t it? Whatcha doin’ this Friday? You workin’?”  
“Nah, got the night off,” says Callum, feeling a bit curious as to how a gay bar would seem from the point of view of a punter, as opposed to a policeman. A sudden thought strikes him. “We can’t go to the Bridge though. There’s gonna be a raid Friday.”  
“ANOTHER one?” Ben curses under his breath. “Ain’t they got nothin’ better to do?”  
Callum shrugs and nudges Ben’s knees apart so that he can stand between them. Ben loops his arms around his shoulders and pulls him in close for another kiss, his actions at odds with the anger in his voice.  
“I’m beginnin’ to see yer gonna be useful to have around though,” says Ben when he pulls back. “Ain’t no chance of me bein’ hauled in by the boys in blue if yer tippin’ me off about raids, is there?”  
“Oh yer just with me cos I’m useful, are ya?”  
“Useful AND pretty,” amends Ben.   
“Andrew said that about me, too,” ponders Callum, still thinking it a strange thing for a man to say about another man. “- that I was pretty.”  
“Oh, he did, did he?” asks Ben, an edge in his voice. “I might havta have a word with ‘im.”  
Callum throws him a disbelieving smile. “Um… pot, kettle? It weren’t my bedroom he was comin’ out of the other day.”  
“Yeah, well…” Ben buries his face in Callum’s shoulder so that he can’t see his sheepish expression.   
“Ya think he’s gonna kick up a fuss?”  
“About us?”  
“Yeah.”  
Ben raises his head again and looks Callum right in the eyes. “Me ‘n’ ‘im, we’ve got together a coupla times when there ain’t bin no one else around. But I was single back then, and I ain’t now, so you don’t need to worry, alright? An’ if he does kick up a fuss I’ll tell him where to stuff it.”  
Callum has no doubt he will, but he can’t help finding it weird that two friends would sleep together and it not mean anything.  
“I’d better phone around, let everyone know not to turn up at the Bridge on Friday,” says Ben, more to himself than anything.

The pub they go to in Whitechapel that Friday night has blacked-out windows and a bouncer. As they pass through the door, Callum can’t help but feel he’s crossed over a line. No longer on the outside looking in, he’s part of it all now, a step away from normal society, one of the freaks they go on about in the papers. He pushes the thought to the back of his mind and follows close behind Ben as he heads for the bar.  
They’re surrounded by men, in groups and couples, and a few sitting at the bar on their own, watching and waiting. It’s pretty busy, and Callum’s surprised by how many punters there are. It’s got a different kind of energy to the places he used to go with Whit.   
Ben navigates their way to the bar with confidence, placing a hand on a shoulder to open up a space for them to squeeze through, or sliding a flirty arm round a waist, stopping to chat with various blokes he knows. He’s in his element. Not like Callum, who keeps his eyes on the ground and spent far too long before they set off that night wondering if he was wearing the right clothes for their evening out. Worried whether he was going to fit in or stick out like a sore thumb.   
Ben orders pints for them and looks around as he’s waiting for them to be served, tapping his fingers on the bar in front of him. He spots someone over at a table in the corner and raises a hand, then turns to Callum. “Andrew’s over there. You OK about sittin’ with him?”  
Callum shrugs, and Ben takes that as agreement. He picks up his drink and leads the way over, Callum following close behind. His stomach is full of butterflies and he concentrates hard on not dropping his pint.  
“Well, well, well,” announces Andrew when they get to him. “If it isn’t Benjamin and his new little friend.”  
“Play nice,” says Ben in a warning tone as he leans in to give Andrew a peck on the cheek before sitting down beside him. Callum wonders if he’s expected to do the same. After a moment’s hesitation he sits down opposite them with a faint smile aimed at Andrew. He’s had Ben to himself the last couple of days. Now it just feels like Andrew’s getting in the way, disturbing the equilibrium. Ben makes the introductions. “Andrew, Callum. Callum, Andrew. Dunno why I’m doin’ this, cos you’ve already met, but these are the formal introductions. Andrew, may I introduce my new and very lovely boyfriend?”  
Callum throws him a look. “What?” asks Ben, holding up his hands. “I ain’t never had a proper boyfriend before, I’m allowed to crow about it!”  
“So,” says Andrew. “I get the impression Ben thinks we need to kiss and make up. That your impression?”  
Callum huffs a nervous laugh, hoping he’s not being literal about the kissing. “Yeah, I think it might be.”  
“OK, well I’m ready for your apology.” Andrew puts his head on one side and regards Callum patiently, eyebrows raised.  
“Uh…” Callum glances at Ben and then back to Andrew.   
Ben gives him a reassuring smile. “Andrew’s just being a bitchy little queen, as usual. What he don’t realise is that yer just comin’ out, Cal, and when ya went in his shop you was feelin’ really nervous an’ you accidentally put yer foot in it. He’s forgot what it’s like to come out, he’s that old.”   
“Ouch!” exclaims Andrew. He turns to Callum. “I understand that being a policeman is not a choice and I fully respect you as an individual, provided you don’t flaunt it in public and just…” he waves his hand around. “Try your best to act like someone who isn’t a policeman.  
“I’m sorry, OK?” says Callum, wishing they would both stop staring at him, and feeling his cheeks heat up under their twin gazes. “I made a mistake, and for Ben’s sake we should probably try an’ get along, shouldn’t we?”  
Andrew regards him with a faint smile on his face, and then turns back to Ben. “OK, he’s cute, this one. I’ll give you that. Pretty, too, which makes up for a multitude of sins.”  
“Yeah, about that - ” deadpans Ben.  
“Right, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt,” says Andrew, turning back to Callum. “Don’t try my patience anymore though, you hear me? How did you like the book, anyway?”  
“What book?” asks Ben.  
“Don’t matter!” says Callum quickly. He resents the way Andrew’s talking to him. He feels…objectified, somehow. Patronised and made to feel like an idiot. He can’t say he’s warming to the man and wonders how on earth Ben ever became friendly with him. He takes a sip from his pint. Looking up he sees Ben throw a reassuring wink at him, his eyes soft.  
The general awkwardness is broken by another man appearing at their table and placing a hand on Callum’s shoulder. Glancing round, Callum sees that in his other hand he’s holding a sheaf of photocopied fliers.  
“Greetings Ben Mitchell and Ben Mitchell’s hot new boyfriend who I’ve heard all about.”  
Ben stands and leans across to kiss the newcomer on the cheek. “Blimey word gets out quick! Y’alright Lee? This is Callum.”  
“Well you did call Andrew the minute it happened to let him know. He told me the only reason you got off the phone was because your money ran out. Something about quoting love sonnets at him?”  
“Rubbish!” says Ben, blushing as he sits back down.  
“It’s true!” announces Andrew. “It was sickening.”  
“Ah you’re just jealous cos he’s off the market at last,” throws back Lee. Callum sees the two of them exchange wry smiles, then Lee leans down and plants a lingering kiss on Callum’s cheek, pulling back to give him an appraising look. A look of wonder breaks over his face. “Ben Mitchell! How the hell did you end up with someone this gorgeous?”  
“Oi! I’m not exactly the Hunchback of Notre Dame,” exclaims Ben.  
“No, but there’s gorgeous, and then there’s GORGEOUS! Hi sweetie, don’t let these two take any liberties, OK? You give back as good as you get, especially to Andrew, you hear me? He’s all mouth and trousers. Comes across like the Dowager Duchess but he’s just a bitter old queen like the rest of us.”  
“Fuck you,” says Andrew, but there’s no venom in his voice.  
Callum smiles back awkwardly, still not sure what to make of all the banter and feeling uncomfortable with the physical contact. It’s not something he’s ever been used to.   
“So, what ya got in yer hand, Lee?” asks Ben.  
Lee raises an amused eyebrow and hands them all a flier each. “Well, I’m very glad you asked. Gentlemen, save the date in your diaries. Saturday 5th July. Gay Pride march, and you all have to be there.”  
Ben and Andrew take the news in their stride. Callum is mortified. He knows all about the Gay Pride marches. He’s nowhere near ready to walk along a road in company of another four or five hundred men and woman, all proclaiming loudly to the world that they’re here and they’re queer.  
“Yer only on the planning committee to piss yer dad off, ain’t ya?” asks Ben.  
“Lee here has a bigger cross to bear than most of us,” Andrew confides to Callum. “His dad’s some bigwig in the police force, so he compensates by being the biggest queen of us all.”  
“Oh yeah?” asks Callum, turning to Lee. “I might know ‘im. I’m a copper an’ all.”  
Lee’s eyes widen. “You are? Wow, sweetie, you’re a much braver man than me then. Steve Thompson. Brute of a man.”  
“Thompson? He’s me DI!” exclaims Callum.  
“Hmm, more like a DI CK,” comments Lee. “I don’t speak to him much.”  
“Or at all,” murmurs Andrew.   
“What’s he like at work?” asks Lee.  
“Bit of a bastard, to be honest,” says Callum. “He’s leadin’ a raid on the Bridge Club tonight.”  
They all shake their heads in disgust. “Yeah, sounds about right,” says Lee. He pastes on a wide smile. “So, you’ll have a think about a banner? For the march?”  
“We never march under a banner,” says Andrew, sounding long-suffering.  
“Yeah, I thought I might just gravitate towards the Dykes on Bikes,” says Ben with another wink at Callum.  
“Callum, I hope you’re going to be a bit more fun than these two fuddy-duddies,” says Lee. “Trapped in a pastiche of stereotypical masculinity, despite their shared love of cock. Live a little! What’s wrong with waving a banner around once a year?”  
Callum can feel his face heating up from the very roots of his hair.  
Andrew stands up abruptly. “I am very happy with my masculinity, thank you very much. You, my sweet, have got fliers to give out, and I need to visit the men’s room.” He winks at Callum as he pushes his way past, and Callum realises that he’d just created a distraction to spare Callum any more blushes. He softens towards the man. He’s more grateful to him than he could ever say.  
When Lee and Andrew have drifted off, Ben leans across the table and takes Callum’s hand. “You OK? They’re a bit full-on sometimes, them two.”  
Callum pulls his hand away, not yet comfortable with public displays of affection, and sees Ben’s face fall a little as he does so. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He waves his hands around. “Just a bit overwhelmin’, that’s all.”  
Ben looks around the pub as if he’s seeing it for the very first time. “Yeah, I s’pose it must be.” He turns back to Callum and smiles gently. “We’ll have another quick half an’ then we’ll call it a night, shall we?”  
“Yeah, wouldn’t mind,” says Callum, unable to conceal the relief in his voice.

He’s quiet on the bus ride home. It’s one of the last of the night, so it’s packed with people heading home after nights out. A young woman four seats in front of them wails drunkenly on her friend’s shoulder about her ex-boyfriend. Behind them, a group of older teenage lads sprawl across the seats, conversing loudly about Millwall’s chances in the rest of the season.  
Callum knows how he feels about Ben, there’s no doubting that, but he doesn’t feel like he fits in with the sort of place they’ve just been, especially now they’re back in the ‘real’ world. The people, the banter. They’re just not him. It all makes him feel weird. He wonders if he ought to mention it to Ben, but he can’t insist he stops going there, stops meeting up with his mates. If he’s taking Ben on, he’s taking on every aspect of him, not just the bits he likes.   
It seems Ben senses some of what he’s thinking though. As the bus pulls out onto Victoria Road he barges Callum lightly with his shoulder.   
“First time I went to a gay pub,” he says quietly, “I swore I’d never go back. I was seventeen, there all on me own, and it felt like a different planet. Everyone in there seemed like freaks.”  
“Yeah,” says Callum, sure the depth of his feeling in that one word has transmitted itself to Ben.  
“Nobody can’t ever warn ya what it’ll be like,” continues Ben. “It does get better though. Ya get used to it. I’ve made some really good friends from meetin’ people on the scene. Underneath all the - ” he waves his hands around. “ – campness and messin’ around, they’re good people. They understand what yer going through an’ they’ll have yer back, stick up for ya.” He leans in closer and rests his head on Callum’s shoulder for just a few seconds. “You just gotta be yerself, Cal, an’ they’ll love ya for it.” He chuckles. “Hell, I think Andrew and Lee are already half in love with ya, and why wouldn’t they be?”   
“Don’t be daft,” says Callum, with a self-deprecating grimace, subtly moving his shoulder from underneath Ben’s head.  
Ben turns in the seat and fixes him with a close look. “You got no idea how gorgeous you are, have ya?”  
Thankfully they’re approaching their stop, so Callum slides out of the seat and makes his way to the back of the bus without another word, Ben following close behind. As they pass the group of lads, one of them mutters ‘Faggot.’  
“That’s MISTER Faggot to you,” exclaims Ben, glaring down at him. His words are met with laughter and jeers. Callum’s breathing becomes shallow, and he progresses to the exit with his head down, not looking to left or right.  
The bus pulls up at the very stop where he’d first encountered Ben on that freezing November night, and they jump down and make their way along the road towards the Square. As they walk alongside the bus, still idling at the stop, the lads inside gesture and jeer at them. “Fuckin’ idiots,” mutters Ben, his anger quietly simmering.  
Not all of the lads are still on the bus though. Glancing quickly behind at the sound of a footfall, Callum realises that two of the older lads have got off at the same stop as them. “Ben,” he says quietly.  
Ben looks behind and curses to himself.  
“Oi! Faggots!”  
“Keep walkin’, Cal.”  
“What you gonna do?” ask Callum, feeling his heart pounding.   
“Nothin’, but if they cut up rough, you leg it, alright?”  
“I ain’t leavin’ ya!”  
“If you get caught up in a fight you’ll lose yer job,” says Ben. “Do as I say.”  
“No!” There’s a figure walking slowly towards them underneath the bridge on the opposite side of the road. As it emerges from the shadows Callum sees that it’s a copper, one of the lads from his station. “Shit!”  
“I’m talkin’ to ya,” shouts one of the lads behind them. “Don’t ignore me. That ain’t very polite, is it? Fuckin’ queers.”  
“Go, Cal,” says Ben.   
“No! They ain’t gonna do anythin’ with a copper over there, are they?”   
“You reckon?”  
Callum sees the copper glance over at the raised voices, but he doesn’t cross the road, seemingly content to progress at a very slow pace on his own side of the road. The bus rumbles past them, blocking him from view. He hasn’t clocked Callum yet, but it’s only a matter of time.  
“For fuck’s sake Callum,” hisses Ben, evidently thinking the same thing. “Walk away from me. I’ll catch ya up. Just don’t make it look like yer with me.”  
He slows down, and reluctantly Callum does as he’s told, rounding the corner into the Square several paces ahead of Ben. He can still hear the kids shouting insults as he reaches his door and lets himself inside. Ben’s fallen further behind.


	11. Searching

Callum is frantic. It’s twenty past eleven, half an hour since he left Ben out there on the street. He’s still not home. After ten minutes had elapsed with no sign of him, Callum had spent the time straining his ears for the sounds of ambulance sirens, but so far there’s been nothing. Maybe nobody bothered to call an ambulance, Maybe Ben’s just lying out there somewhere, fatally injured, abandoned and alone.  
He drums his fingers on the kitchen counter and then makes up his mind. Slamming his hand down, he crosses to the door and heads out onto the street. It’s quiet now, most people having got home safe and sound, and all the buses having stopped for the night. He stops on the steps to his building and gazes around the Square, imagining every shadow and shape to be that of a body, straining his eyes to see clearer. He begins to retrace his steps, heading back around the corner, past the hardware store, under the bridge. He walks up as far as the bus stop, but there’s nothing. He crosses over the silent road, scrutinising every inch of the pavement on the other side, then crosses back and does the same again. There’s no body, but he begins peering at the pavement in the light thrown by the streetlamps, looking for spots of blood. He thinks he sees some, a darker patch on the tarmac, and bends to give it a closer look with his heart in his mouth. It’s not. Someone’s spilt a drink, that’s all. He feels like sobbing with relief.  
A cat scuttles across the road, the sudden movement having his every sense on high alert. His heart pounds. The animal stops on the other pavement and fixes him with green eyes that glint opaquely in the gloom, before going on its way. Where else can he look? He heads back up the road, peering into the darkest doorways and alleyways. The light spilling out onto the pavement from the phone box gives him an idea. He pulls open the heavy door and fishes in his pocket for some coins.  
He calls directory enquiries and ask for the number of Walford General, then directs them to put the call through, waiting until there’s an answer before he pushes his ten pence coin into the slot.   
“Uh yeah… um, this is PC Highway from Walford nick.” His voice is shaking with anxiety. He clears his throat. “I need you to tell me if a Ben Mitchell’s been admitted tonight. Possibly the victim of a violent assault.”  
“Just one moment.” He hears a ‘clunk’ as the receptionist puts the receiver down on the desk and then the sounds of a busy A&E department on a Friday night, voices and singing from the drunks who’ve ended up there. He tries to concentrate on his breathing as he waits, breathing in for three seconds, holding it, and then breathing out for another three seconds. He has to push another coin into the slot, a fifty pence piece the only one he’s got, before the receptionist comes back on the line. “Sorry officer. No one of that name’s been brought in.”  
He breathes a huge sigh of relief. Ben’s not been hurt. Yet. “OK, thank you.”   
So where the hell is he? Those kids wouldn’t have taken him somewhere, would they? Callum contemplates calling him in as a missing person, but he knows the police won’t even look at it until Ben’s been gone for at least twenty-four hours. He replaces the receiver and rests his head on the glass of the phone box, focussing on the streaks of red paint from the vandalism that he spotted the night Ben came back into his life. He tries to quell the panic that’s rising in his chest and calls to mind what he would tell a member of the public who was worried about a missing loved one. He should go home, wait there in case Ben turns up. Yep, that’s what he should do. Maybe Ben’s already there, leaning against the kitchen counter, ready with a cheeky quip for when Callum gets back. Even so, as he retraces his steps again, he calls Ben’s name, stopping and holding his breath every so often to listen out for an answering cry.  
There’s nothing.  
Back home, he opens the door to the flat slowly, certain right up to the last second that Ben’s going to be there, imagining the relief he’ll feel. The living room is empty. He calls Ben’s name cautiously. Nothing. No response. Shit! Where the hell is he? What have those bastard kids done to him?  
He sits on the couch and tried to think reasonably. Maybe Ben’s hiding out somewhere until he’s sure the kids have gone away. Yep, that’ll be it. He won’t want to get into a confrontation. He’ll be making himself scarce. He’ll be home soon enough.  
He’ll wait. For Ben, Callum will wait as long as it takes. He settles in on the couch and watches the door. His every sinew is straining for the slightest sound, the first indication that Ben’s made it home. He stills at the sound of a floorboard creaking upstairs, a passing car outside. Every now and then he crosses to peer between the curtains for signs of movement in the Square outside.  
He must doze off on the couch eventually, because the next thing he knows, it’s twenty to four and he’s freezing. The flat is still silent and empty.  
He gets up in a stupor and heads to Ben’s room to pull the duvet off his bed, and then returns to the couch, wrapping it round himself and breathing in the residual scent of Ben, feeling warmth creep through him. Again, his ears strain for the slightest noise until he drops off once more. He comes to again when the market cleaner goes past outside. He glances at the clock on the mantelpiece. Half past six. Still no sign. He can’t sleep any more so he goes out again, wrapping his arms around himself against the early morning chill and retracing his steps from last night one more time. Still, there’s no sign. A street cleaner is making his way towards him. The bloke nods his head in greeting.  
“You ain’t seen a bloke around here, have ya mate?” asks Callum. “Mightta been a bit the worse for wear?”  
“Nah, mate. Ain’t seen anyone up yet, bit early, ain’t it?”  
He goes on his way as Callum tries to stop the panic from overtaking him. What can he do? Where might Ben have gone? Could he have gone over to Whitechapel, back to Andrew’s? But why on earth would he do that? Suddenly Callum remembers the batch of papers he’d packed from Ben’s room when he went to pick up his things from Phil’s. Maybe Andrew’s contact details are in amongst them.  
He runs back to the flat again, still hoping against hope that Ben will be there when he opens the door, but it’s as deathly quiet as when he left it. He crosses to Ben’s room and gazes around, wondering where he might have put the papers. The drawer of the bedside table yields nothing. The top drawer of the chest of drawers contains underwear, but rooting through it all Callum’s fingers brush against paper. He draws out the pile of fliers, photos and bank statements. Glancing at the photos again he can recognise Andrew and Lee as two of the friends Ben was posing with. Behind them, strung across a wall in the gloom of a pub or club, is a banner with a pink triangle. Funny what you miss when you’re not looking for it.  
He scrabbles through the other papers, but there’s nothing that looks like anyone’s contact details. The photo of the two of them is still in the pile. Callum holds it with both hands, his eyes abruptly brimming with tears. He wipes them away roughly and urges himself to think. Crying like a girl isn’t going to help Ben, is it?  
He shoves the papers back into the bottom of the drawer and strides back out to the living room. It’s five past seven, still early. Maybe he should make himself a cup of tea, take a moment. He’d always prided himself on keeping a level head; it’s a fact that’s been noted more than once in his annual reviews at work; but it seems all that goes out the window when it’s someone he actually cares about. He’s only now beginning to realise the real intensity of the feeling he has for Ben; has had for years dating back to their time at school together. Please god don’t let it be too late!  
Tea drunk, he decides to go out once again. It’s quarter to eight, the Square has come to life again. Maybe someone will have seen or heard something. He’ll do unofficial house to house enquiries if that’s what it takes.  
He stops the first four people he sees outside, asking them all the same question. They look uniformly blank at him. They haven’t seen anything, they haven’t heard anything. He can feel himself getting frantic again as he traverses the Square.  
“What you up to, bruv?”  
Callum curses to himself as he hears Stuart’s voice behind him just as he’s crossing to enter the garden. He turns to face him. “I ain’t got time for this Stu.”  
Stuart’s grinning in that bemused way he always does. “Ain’t got time for what? Why ya lookin’ so worried? You feelin’ better?”  
“Feelin’ better?” asks Callum equally as bemused as Stuart’s looking.  
“Yeah, you said you thought you was comin’ down with somethin’ that last time I saw ya. You alright now?”  
Oh. “No, I ain’t,” says Callum trying to walk past him. “I gotta get on Stu. I’ll see ya later.”  
Stuart side-steps to block his escape. He’s looking concerned now. “What’s the matter with ya, Cal?”  
“Just get out me way!” yells Callum. He pushes Stuart to one side and strides off across the Square without a backwards glance.  
One more circuit of the Square and a quick diversion out onto Victoria Road again, and he’s still found nothing. He retraces his steps once again, bending to look underneath cars, peering into the tightest spots imaginable, spots that he knows in all honesty Ben could not have crawled into, but he’s desperate, and desperation calls for desperate, illogical measures.  
Finally, he admits defeat and turns back for home. Once again he can’t ignore the hope that flares in him. Maybe this time Ben will be there waiting for him, but no. The flat is silent as the grave. He doesn’t bother pulling back the curtains even though the sun is fully risen now, preferring to sit in the gloom in the crumpled pile of Ben’s duvet. He’s exhausted, at a loss to know what to do next. He feels more alone than he ever has in his life.  
There’s a knock at the door and his heart leaps into his mouth. Please god don’t let it be the police! He’s done enough of those bad news calls to know how it goes. The subdued manner, the request to come in, the suggestion that they sit down…  
For one moment he reasons that if he doesn’t answer the door, it won’t be true, whatever news they’ve come to bring him. Then common-sense kicks in again. He walks over to the door, his tread heavy, and pulls it open cautiously.   
He feels like yelling. There on the doorstep is Stuart, looking full of trepidation with a tentative half-smile on his face.  
“What’s goin’ on Cal?” he asks.  
Callum’s all out of fight now. He returns to the couch and collapses back down on it, leaving the door open. Stuart steps cautiously into the flat and closes it behind himself, hovering uncertainly just inside.  
“Tell me what’s goin’ on,” repeats Stuart.  
Callum lets out a huge sigh that verges on a whine as he battles to contain his tears. He rubs a hand over his eyes.  
“Ben’s… missin’.”  
Stuart gives a disbelieving chuckle, then rearranges his features into something more serious as he sees how upset Callum is. “Since when?”  
“Last night. We was comin’ home from a night out an’ these kids started havin’ a go. I…” Callum tails off, knowing that he’d abandoned Ben to his fate. He swallows loudly. “I got ‘ome and he…”  
“…didn’t,” finishes Stuart.  
Callum nods.  
“Well, he’s a big boy, he can take care of ‘imself,” says Stuart, a reassuring smile spreading over his face. He crosses to sit beside Callum and reaches out a hand to pat his shoulder, but then thinks better of it. He squeezes his hands together between his knees instead. “You always did get worked up about the slightest thing Cal. Big softy, ain’t ya?”  
“This ain’t the slightest thing, Stuart!” yells Callum, seeing Stuart flinch at the sudden volume. “He could be out there lyin’ dead an’ I…” He chokes back a sob. “I did nothin’ to help ‘im. This is on me, If anythin’s happened to him I’ll never forgive meself.”  
Stuart’s looking shocked at his sudden outburst. He raises his hands as if he’s trying to placate a wild animal. “Alright bruv, don’t get yerself in a state. Maybe you should phone the hospital, see if he’s bin brought in.”  
“Already done it,” says Callum.  
“And?”  
Callum shakes his head. “Nothin’.”  
“Well, there you are then.”  
“But where the hell is he, Stu?”  
Stuart is looking at him with a frown creasing his forehead. “Like I said, he can look after ‘imself. An’ if he’s got himself in another fight, well, he’s only got ‘imself to blame, ain’t he? Why you so worked up about ‘im?”  
At that precise moment there’s the sound of a key in the lock and Callum jumps to his feet immediately. The relief at seeing Ben step over the threshold is like a physical blow to his chest. He looks exhausted, but there’s something else too. He looks angry. The anger clears though as he sees Callum, and they conduct a silent conversation with expressions alone. From the corner of his eye, Callum can see Stuart looking from one to the other of them in confusion, and it almost feels like the scene has frozen, until Ben breaks the moment by crossing to the kitchen and slamming the door behind himself. He hasn’t looked at Stuart once. Callum’s not even sure he registered his presence.  
“Stuart, you need to go,” he says, wanting to be with Ben as soon as he can.  
“What?” chuckles Stuart. “But you - ”  
“Just go!” Callum tries to tamp down his frustration. “Listen, give us a bit of time alone, alright? I’ll come and see you later – no, after work tomorrow. I’ll explain, OK? Meet you in the Vic at six, yeah?”  
“Well yeah, but-   
“He pushes Stuart towards the door and waves away his protestations, then closes the door behind him and heads for the kitchen. Just as he opens the kitchen door, Ben kicks the rubbish bin across the room. It lands on its side against the wall with a loud clatter, empty packets and used tea bags spilling out over the floor. Then he leans back against the sink and hugs his arms tight around himself. He doesn’t look hurt. There are no bruises or cuts. He just looks angry.  
“What happened?” asks Callum tentatively.  
Ben seems to come to at the sound of his voice, and the plaintive look he throws him has Callum crossing the room to him immediately. They cling to each other in a tight embrace, and Callum buries his face in Ben’s hair, unable to even start giving voice to the relief he feels at having him back.  
“Was it them kids?” ask Callum. “I will never forgive meself for leavin’ you behind with ‘em. I bin out lookin’ for ya half the night, thought I was gonna find ya dead in a gutter somewhere.”  
“Nah, it weren’t them,” says Ben with a choked-off laugh. “They tried to ‘ave a go, yeah, but they scarpered when that copper come over to sort ‘em out.”  
“So what, then?” asks Callum.  
Ben huffs another harsh laugh, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Your mates, Callum.” He buries his face in Callum’s shoulder and his tone is bitter. “Your fuckin’ mates! I don’t know how ya can do that job.”  
Callum pulls back and stares at him. “What d’ya mean?”  
“That bleedin’ copper let them kids scarper, but then he decided I must be a bit sus an’ all, so he asked me to empty me pockets. Course, he saw that flier for Pride, didn’t he? So he told me he was gonna take me in.”  
Callum feels a chill around his heart. “For what?”  
“For nothin’! I started arguin’ with ‘im and he told me he’d do me for resistin’ arrest if I didn’t go quietly.”  
“But that’s out an’ out discrimination!”  
“Yeah, welcome to the real world, Callum.” Ben scoffs. He strokes a hand down Callum’s arm, his action at odds with his words, as if he’s trying to telegraph that his anger is not with Callum.  
“Did they charge ya?” asks Callum.  
“Nah, course not. There weren’t nothin’ they could charge me with. They just shoved me in a cell for the night and then let me go. Took a few particulars, carried out a joke of an interview that lasted all of fifteen minutes, but that was that. No apology, no breakfast, nothin’.”  
“But I bin goin’ out of me mind here!”  
“I know. I couldn’t get a message to ya, could I?”  
“Listen, I ain’t mad at ya Ben,” says Callum. “I was just at the stage of reportin’ you missin’, and all the time it was them that had ya! I’m so sorry… Listen, let me get ya somethin’ to eat, then maybe we can get a bit of kip. You look exhausted.”  
“Yeah, so do you,” says Ben. “Ain’t you s’posed to be at work today?”  
“Yeah but stuff ‘em. I’m knackered. I bin up half the night, and right now I just wanna be with you.”  
Ben’s features soften. He reaches up and kisses Callum and holds him tight around the waist for a few seconds. “Listen,” he says. “You go an’ call in sick. I’ll get us some breakfast, alright?”

When Callum gets back from the phone box, Ben’s cleared away his duvet, tidied up the bin in the kitchen, and laid out tea, toast and cereal on the coffee table for them both. They eat in silence, both too exhausted to do much more, but once they’ve finished Ben curls into Callum and holds him tight. Just the warmth of his body calms Callum immediately, the sound of his even breathing soothing him into a stupor. There is nothing he won’t do to protect this man in his arms. Whatever it takes.  
Eventually, he rouses himself. “We should get in bed, Ben. We can sleep proper there.”  
“Yeah,” murmurs Ben. Then he twists round and looks up at Callum. He looks a bit nervous. “Would ya do somethin’ for me? I don’t know if it’s too soon, but I, uh…”  
“Anythin’, Ben.”  
“I kinda feel like I need this right now. I wanna feel ya inside me. Would ya..? D’you wanna..?”  
Callum takes a second to catch up to what he means, and then he feels his stomach lurch with arousal and nerves in equal measure. “Y-yeah. You need to show me how…”  
“’K.” Ben stands up and leads Callum by the hand to his bedroom.  
When he overcomes his nerves and they finally get into their rhythm it’s slow and intense, and Callum no longer feels residual embarrassment or shame. They maintain eye contact throughout, almost silent apart from gasping breaths and low moans, and with every stroke he feels more in love with the man beneath him than ever. Every stroke is an assertion that their love matters, that it’s not a dirty joke to be whispered about in corners, or shouted about on buses and in the street. It’s not a source of titillation for the tabloids.   
They. Matter.   
What they’re doing, this is their little act of defiance against a world that doesn’t accept them.  
He can see in Ben’s eyes that this is exactly why he needed it, and he can think of no better way to show him that he is loved. Callum finally understands what it is to love someone with all of his heart.  
Afterwards, they lie quietly, and Callum feels somehow like he’s at peace with himself. It’s them against the world, and he doesn’t have a problem with that so much anymore. However, he also starts to feel guilty at the way he’d treated Stuart now that he’s not feeling the extremes of emotions he’d felt earlier.  
Eventually, he clears his throat. “I...uh… I got a feelin’ I accidentally made an appointment to come out to me brother earlier.”  
He feels Ben smile against his chest. “Yeah? That was a bit careless. How d’ya think he’ll take it?”  
“Badly.”  
There’s silence between them for a while, and then Ben raises his head and looks Callum in the eyes. “I’ll be here, when ya’ve spoke to him. I’ll be here for ya Cal.”


	12. Covering up and coming out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OK, so there are going to be 13 chapters in the end...

Callum pauses at the service entrance to the police station and stares up at the austere concrete building, at the crest that adorns the space just above the door, the only splash of colour on a grey, drab wall. When he’d joined the force he’d assumed he was becoming part of something noble, a band of men and women united in their cause to make the world a better place, right defeating wrong. Now, after recent weeks and especially after what’s happened to Ben, he feels like an outsider, cast adrift from most of the officers he serves alongside. It turns out what’s right and wrong is subjective, and he’s pretty sure the majority of his colleagues would still regard him as a criminal, despite the fact that homosexuality was decriminalised over a decade ago. Old prejudices die slowly.  
They’d talked about it in bed the day before, Ben repeating his view that he couldn’t understand how Callum could work for such a bigoted organisation and wondering why he didn’t leave to fight the injustices they faced in a different way. Callum had nodded his understanding, but the fact is, he doesn’t feel ready to do anything, and he doesn’t know if he ever will. He’s all for a quiet life. He’s not like Tina, he cares about what people think of him. He still seeks approval. He’s always been a people pleaser.  
He sighs heavily and forces himself to step through the door for his shift.  
He’s scarcely clocked in before DI Thompson appears. He beckons to him to follow him without uttering a greeting. “A word, PC Highway.”  
Callum looks neither to right or left as he follows Thompson down the corridor to his office. From the corner of his eye he sees some of the other officers watch their progress, no doubt trying to guess what trouble he’s got himself into now. Maybe some of them already know. PC Savage winks at him as he passes, a smug grin on his face. Once inside the office Callum stands in front of the desk while Thompson shuts the office door firmly and resolutely, pushing it into its frame with both hands. He doesn’t invite Callum to take the seat in front of the desk as he rounds it and sits down himself. Instead, he steeples his fingers in front of his chest and regards Callum silently.  
Callum swallows and tells himself he’s not intimidated. This man cannot scare him. He links his fingers behind his back and stands strong, with his feet apart.  
“We raided the Bridge Club Friday night,” begins Thompson.  
“Yes sir,” says Callum, wondering what that’s got to do with him. He wasn’t on duty; he was in a totally different gay venue that night.  
“Not many punters in. Hardly worth the effort.”  
Callum knows he expects him to say that he’s sorry, in solidarity with his colleagues; to show he’s disappointed that they didn’t get a result. He can’t bring himself to do it, so he stays silent.  
Thompson reaches out a hand and picks up a sheet of paper from his in-tray, not taking his eyes off Callum for a second. “This is probably the reason why.”  
He slides the paper across his desk and Callum sees that it’s a crude poster, capital letters drawn in thick felt-tip pen. He bends his head to read the words.

“We’ve had word that we’re going to be raided this evening. We all love a man in uniform, but if you don’t fancy an impromptu date with the boys in blue, sup up and be out of here before 9. We look forward to seeing you again soon x”

“That,” says Thompson, “was pinned up behind the bar. Any idea how it got there?”  
“Me sir?” asks Callum, his mouth going dry. “Course not.”  
Ben was going to phone around, warn people off the club that night. Was it his doing?  
“No? Because I think we must have a mole in the station, and I’ve been racking my brains trying to work out who it might be.” Thompson sits back and folds his arms, still staring closely at Callum. “I couldn’t help remembering that twice before I’ve asked you to carry out an order in relation to our limp-wristed friends, and twice you’ve failed. Can you see why I might be a bit suspicious?”  
Callum drops his gaze and lets it travel across Thompson’s desk, feeling a spark of anger at Thompson’s slur and determined not to let him see it. On the left-hand side of the desk there’s a gilt-framed photograph, angled just so that anyone sitting opposite the DI can see the family grouping: DI Thompson, family man, with a plump, pleasant wife and two smiling daughters.  
“I don’t - ” begins Callum.  
“Are you a homosexual, PC Highway?”  
“No!” Callum immediately blushes, cursing himself for not having the guts to stand up for himself, to tell his truth.  
“Do I need to warn the other lads about you, PC Highway?”  
“Sir -”  
“Because here’s another funny thing,” continues Thompson. “We had one of ‘em brought in Friday night. Couldn’t pin anything on him, but we went through the whole routine - booked him, interviewed him - and d’you want to know what caught my attention, PC Highway?”  
Callum can feel his heart hammering in his chest. He looks longingly at the chair in front of him that Thompson hasn’t invited him to sit in.  
“I’ve got a feeling you might be able to guess,” says Thompson. “I’ll tell you anyway, just in the interests of full disclosure.” He smiles easily, looking like a shark that’s about to devour its prey.  
“This bloke we brought in, gave his address as Albert Square. Funny, I thought, I’m sure we’ve got an officer who lives on Albert Square.” He pauses, as if to give Callum a chance to finish his little anecdote for him. Callum raises his head and stares at a point on the wall above Thompson’s head. He can’t prove anything; he’s putting two and two together and making… He can’t prove it. Callum doesn’t have to tell him. “So I did a little detective work,” continues Thompson. “I’m rather good at that, though I say it meself. I think you can probably guess what I found out.”  
He sits forward, his movement abrupt. “Why would you be living at the same address as a known homosexual, Highway?”  
“H-he’s an old schoolmate, sir,” says Callum. “I let him rent me spare room when his dad kicked ‘im out.”  
He sees Thompson’s eyes narrow at his words and gets the impression he’s scored a point against the man. So that’s what happened in his family too!  
“If I find you are colluding with - ”  
“It ain’t a crime, sir!” exclaims Callum. “Bein’ that way, it ain’t bin a crime since 1967, so I don’t understand why - ”  
“Silence!” roars Thompson. “Speak when I give you permission and not a moment before, you hear me?” He stands up and rests his fists on the desk, leaning towards Callum with a face like thunder. “It may not be a crime, but colluding with people like that, leaking information outside the station most certainly is! I’m keeping an eye on you, PC Highway. I think there might be some performance issues we need to work on, or you’ll be out on your ear. You understand?”  
Callum understands only too well. A flicker of defiance takes hold inside him, borne of resentment. It may only be the tiniest of flames right now, but big fires grow from small sparks. “Understood sir,” he says. “Can I go now?”  
Thompson glares at him for a few seconds more, and then indicates the door with a flick of his chin.  
Callum still feels shaky from fear of being found out, but there’s something else. There’s anger there, too. He opens the door and pauses on the threshold. Turning back to Thompson he clears his throat and stares pointedly at the family photograph. “How’s yer son, sir? Lee, is it?”  
He slams the door behind himself without waiting for an answer.  
The sudden sound makes a few of the officers milling around glance at him. He glares at them all and heads towards the locker room to change into his uniform. It’s him against the world right now.  
“You alright?” asks a voice. He turns to see Tina approaching. Maybe it’s not just him against the world. Maybe he’s got allies, even if they do seem to be few and far between. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”  
“I’m fine,” mutters Callum. “Just - ”  
“Just what?”  
“Thompson.”  
Tina sniggers. “He was in a right mood Friday night. Hardly a soul in at the Bridge when we got there. That weren’t anythin’ to do with you, was it?”  
Callum throws his hands up in the air. “Why does everyone think it was down to me?”  
“OK, OK, sorry.”  
They walk in silence, most of the officers heading in the opposite direction as they set off on their beats for the day, and Callum feels a little guilty at blowing up at Tina like that. “He asked if I was – you know,” he says by way of apology.  
“Huh?”  
“You know.”  
She glances up at him with a kindly smile. “Ya can say it, Cal. The world ain’t gonna stop turnin’.”  
“He ain’t got no right,” says Callum, ignoring her, his righteous anger rising again. “It ain’t illegal.” He reaches his locker and opens it up, rooting around until he finds his notebook and pencil, and taking his jacket from the hook inside the door. “Joe Sutton brought Ben in Friday night.”  
“What, from the Bridge?”  
Callum shakes his head. “He was on the street. Some kids ‘ad a go at…” Callum hesitates. He doesn’t want Tina to know that he abandoned Ben to those kids. He finishes by saying “him,” instead of ‘us’. “Sutton let the kids go and pulled in Ben.”  
“What? Why?”  
“No reason at all. They held him all night. I was goin’ out of me mind, Teen.”  
“That’s bleedin’ out of order.” Tina looks as angry as he feels. “Listen, you should join my support group, I’ve bin - ”  
“I can’t.”  
She smiles uncertainly. “But why wouldn’t ya? There’s strength in numbers, Cal. We can band together, start - ”  
“We? Who’s we? Who the hell is gonna out ‘emselves in this station, Teen?” Callum shakes his head, exasperated. “Nah, yer on yer own with this one, and if you want my advice you’ll forget all about it.”  
He sees her face fall, then a defiant look appears. “Well that’s where yer wrong. I bin soundin’ out a few people. There’s a couple of dykes interested in joinin’, one of the constables in the traffic division, AND, I’ve got a sergeant. Bet ya didn’t know we had a gay sergeant here, did ya?”  
Callum frowns. “Who?”  
“Desk sergeant on the custody suite.”  
“What, you mean the bloke who probably booked me boyfriend in Friday night?” asks Callum.  
He sees a grin spread across Tina’s face. “See, yer makin’ progress, Cal.”  
“What?”  
“You called him yer boyfriend. Huge progress, Cal. Before we know it you’ll be dancin’ on the tables in the canteen to Donna Summer.”  
“Shut up! I’m not joinin’ yer support group.”  
He starts to walk away, but she runs round in front of him, causing him to stop short before he trips over her. “But you’ve got a duty to come out, Cal. How we gonna make things better if we all hide away in our closets, eh? You gotta be visible to help other people.”  
He snorts an unconvinced laugh. “I’m only just out to meself, Teen. Besides which, you come out, you just make yerself a bigger target for the likes of Thompson and Savage, dontcha?” He pushes her to one side with his hands on her shoulders.  
“I thought you was braver than that,” she shouts after him as he walks away down the corridor.  
He ponders her words as he treads his beat that day. Looking around, he wonders how many of the people he passes would care if they knew he was with another bloke. Would it make life better for any of them? He can’t imagine it would, and besides, you can’t just announce it to everyone, can you? Life would be made up of hundreds and hundreds of comings out, every time he met a new person, all the while wondering if they were going to accept him or punch his lights out. Never mind coming out at work, he’s got one such coming out looming large in his personal life, the much more pressing matter of his chat with Stuart that evening. He wonders if he could avoid the subject altogether. He’s pretty much convinced he knows how Stuart’s going to react, and it’s going to have more in common with the views of Thompson and Savage than anyone like Tina or Ben.

The bar at the Vic is obscured by its customary fug of cigarette smoke when he arrives that evening. He’d come here straight from work, thinking he’d get it over with in half an hour and then get home to Ben. Quite a few people have had the same idea, calling in for a quick pint before going home to their loved ones and tea. On the jukebox the Nolans are singing ‘I’m in the Mood for Dancing’. He snorts to himself, remembering Tina’s words from earlier. He’s never felt less like dancing in his life. He peers around and spots Stuart over in the corner. His brother waves as if they’ve been apart for months and are meeting again in the arrivals hall of Heathrow, then points down at the table, where there’s already a pint waiting for Callum.  
“Alright bruv?” he says as Callum sinks down into the chair opposite him.  
At least Callum won’t be having this particular awkward conversation standing on his feet. “Alright Stu?”  
“Busy day at work?” asks Stuart. He seems nervous, more twitchy than usual and the slightly bemused smile that he always wears dialled up just a little more brightly.  
“So-so,” answers Callum, wishing Stuart would just cut to the chase. His brother is looking at him a bit more intently than he normally does, his gaze holding a split second longer than it normally would. Stuart begins an interminable tale about his day on the building site he’s currently working on, almost like a stream of consciousness. Callum zones out, unable to concentrate on what he’s saying, and sips at his pint for courage. When Stuart pauses momentarily for breath, he says. “So, you got questions about Saturday mornin’, yeah?”  
Immediately, Stuart sobers. He blinks and opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. A grim look sets over his face. “Well, yeah.”  
“OK.” Callum shrugs.  
“What was goin’ on, Cal? You an’ Ben. What was that all about? Had you argued, the pair of ya?”  
“Nah. We hadn’t argued.”  
“Well what then? Ya looked like you was…”  
“We looked like we was what?” Callum can feel his breathing become shallow again. He picks up his pint to conceal his face, but puts it down again without taking a sip. His hand’s shaking too much to keep it steady.  
Stuart stares at him for a long few seconds, and then a look of resolution comes over his face. He nods slightly. “Ya looked like the pair of ya was about to kiss and make up.” He pauses, but when there’s no answer from Callum, he continues. “I ain’t never seen that look between two blokes before. It was…”  
“It was what?”  
“Weird, is what it was. I spent all weekend thinkin’ about it, and I decided I musta bin mistaken. I mean, nah. Our Callum ain’t like that.” Stuart raises his hand and dips it at the wrist, the universal unspoken sign for ‘homosexual’. “You ain’t, are ya Cal?”  
Callum could deny it, reassure him. He denied it this morning, in Thompson’s office. He denied what Ben meant to him. It’s not something he’s going to make a habit of, though. He’s been beating himself up about it ever since and this is the time to speak his truth.  
He takes a deep breath, staring into his pint. “I always cared about ‘im, Stu. We always ‘ad a special bond.”  
He chances a look up at Stuart. His brother is looking appalled. “But that don’t mean you gotta - ”  
“We lost touch,” ploughs on Callum. “An’ then his dad kicked ‘im out for…for…” He takes a deep breath. “For bein’… gay.”  
“What?”  
“I let him rent me spare room an’ then it just developed from there.”  
“But you ain’t – that way, Cal.” Stuart’s tone is incredulous.  
“You wanna know where he’d bin Friday night? Why I was in such a state?”  
Stuart looks like he’s going to tell him he doesn’t want to hear another word about any of it, but Callum ploughs on again regardless.  
“We was comin’ home from a night out an’ some kids started havin’ a go. Ben told me to walk on ahead cos he didn’t want me to get in trouble. If them kids had started on me, if there’da bin a fight, or an assault, it woulda all come out at the station, so Ben did that for me, he risked his own safety for my career, cos he cares that much.” Callum swallows hard, still upset at the events of that night. “I got ‘ome an’ he didn’t.”  
He chances a glance up at Stuart. He’s hanging on his every word.  
“I went out that night lookin’ for him, thinkin’ I was gonna find him lying in a pool of his own blood, and d’ya know what had happened?”  
Stuart shrugs.  
“The police took ‘im in. They broke up the fight, the kids scarpered and they arrested ‘im just cos he was a queer. There weren’t nothin’ they could charge ‘im with, but they slung ‘im in a cell anyway. And all the while I was goin’ out of me mind, thinkin’ he was lyin’ dead somewhere.”  
“Well that ain’t right,” says Stuart. “That just ain’t right. An’ he hadn’t done nothin’, you say?”  
“Nothin’, apart from get victimised by a bunch of kids.”  
Stuart stares down at the surface of the table. Callum can almost see the cogs whirring in his brain. He waits. Maybe the fact that Stuart hasn’t stormed out yet is a good sign. Maybe?  
Eventually, Stuart nods to himself, and raises his eyes to stare intently at Callum. “I don’t ever wanna see you an’ him… you know. I don’t wanna know what ya get up to, you understand me Cal? But bein’ treated like that, it ain’t right, is it? Yer me brother, Cal, an’ I’ll always stick up for ya. Just don’t…” He looks uncomfortable. “You ‘n’ ‘im, don’t rub me face in it, ya hear?”  
“Nah, course not!” says Callum, overcome with relief. He stands up and beckons to Stuart to do the same, then rounds the table and hugs him, his relief causing him to squeeze tight. “Thanks bruv.”  
“Yeah, see that - ” says Stuart, straining to be let go. “That’s what I’m on about.” As Callum releases him he steps back and glances around him at the other drinkers, all of whom are minding their own business and paying no heed at all to them. “Don’t DO that!” he mutters. Then he clears his throat and straightens his clothing. In a loud, deep voice, he asks, “You see the match on Saturday then, mate?”


	13. Feeling Proud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So here we are, out and proud...

“And that’s it? Yer happy with that, are ya?” asks Ben when Callum recounts the conversation with Stuart. “Peckin’ up the crumbs from his table, yeah?” He’s in the kitchen when Callum gets home, spam fritters under the grill and potatoes on the boil. The radio plays quietly in the background. It would be homely, domestic, if it weren’t for the argument they’re in danger of tipping into.  
“Well he didn’t reject me,” says Callum, crestfallen that Ben hasn’t recognised the positive nature of his chat with Stuart. “I gotta be grateful for that.”  
“But he didn’t exactly welcome ya with open arms neither, did he? Do whatever ya wanna do as long as ya never mention it and stay away from me while yer at it.” Ben shakes his head in despair.  
“Well you stickin’ yer tongue down me throat every time we see him ain’t gonna keep him on-side, is it?” exclaims Callum. He shrugs, arms spread wide. “I dunno what you want, Ben.”  
“What I want,” says Ben, turning and leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms folded, a defiant glint in his eye, “What I want, is to be able to live me life however I see fit, without needin’ permission from the straights. Without worryin’ I’m gonna be upsettin’ ‘em just by bein’ meself.”  
Callum shakes his head. It sounds ridiculous, what Ben’s asking for. “You won’t keep ‘em on-side if ya chuck it in their faces, will ya?”  
“Chuck it in..?” Ben trails off, looking too incredulous to finish. “Me kissin’ me boyfriend is about showin’ ‘im how much he means to me. It ain’t got nothin’ to do with the straights. I ain’t tryin’ to shock ‘em. I ain’t rubbin’ it in their faces. It’s just me goin’ about me business and not givin’ a stuff about them and their poxy little lives. How we ever gonna be accepted, Cal, if we’re just brushed under the carpet by that lot?”  
“I dunno,” says Callum, longing once again for a quiet life. “I just know me brother’s still speakin’ to me, and that’s a pretty good result if you ask me.”  
Ben snorts in derision, and Callum heads off to his bedroom for a sit-down on his own before they get into a full-blown argument.  
A few minutes later he hears Ben calling him. He breathes a big sigh and goes out into the living room. Ben’s turned the radio up. ‘Sailing’ by Christopher Cross is playing.  
“Dance with me, Cal.” He’s smiling sweetly, his anger from earlier nowhere in sight.  
Callum scoffs. “What?”  
“Dance with me, c’mon.” Ben holds out his arms and Callum crosses to embrace him, seeing this for what it is. An apology, a declaration from Ben that he doesn’t want to fight either. He remembers the two men who were dancing together when he was part of the Bridge Club raid. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to do this in public like they did. He’ll have to make the most of doing it in his own living room. He and Ben sway together, circling slowly to the music, and Ben rests his head on Callum’s chest. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “I know this is all new to ya. I ain’t gonna push ya.”  
“S’ OK,” says Callum, relaxing into the feel of Ben’s body against his and pulling his arms tighter around his shoulders.  
“It ain’t.” Ben sighs. “None of this is OK. We shouldn’t havta skulk around in the shadows, and we shouldn’t havta put up with the way we’re treated. We shouldn’t havta ask permission -”  
“Ben,” says Callum, in a warning tone. They’re in danger of reigniting their argument.  
“Sorry!” Ben reaches up and kisses Callum, and they lock lips as the music soars around them. It feels like a special moment. One of those that, in years to come, Callum will always find himself transported back to whenever he hears the song. He tries to show Ben the strength of his feeling for him in just that kiss, still marvelling at how far they’ve come together, from school to here.  
Eventually, they pull apart and Ben clears his throat. “Lee’s a member of a Gay Lib group over in Whitechapel. I was thinkin’ I might join an’ all. You interested?”  
Callum’s heart plummets. “Oh I dunno, Ben. What’s it involve?”  
“Bit of direct action, meetin’s, consciousness raisin’. Nothin’ illegal. Well, not very illegal.”  
He stares up at Callum and a disappointed look comes over his face. “OK. Forget I mentioned it. You ain’t ready.”  
“I can’t, Ben. You know I - ”  
“Shit!” The smell of burning reaches them, and Ben darts back into the kitchen. “Me spam fritters!”  
Well, that’s that discussion over then. Callum can’t say he’s sorry.

Waking the next morning, warm and cosy with the covers pulled up high and Ben snoring quietly in his arms, he wishes this is how it could always be. It’s only when the outside world encroaches on them that life gets difficult. It’s nobody’s business what he and Ben get up to when they’re alone together. He kind of agrees with Stuart on that point.  
He sighs to himself, and smooths a hand over Ben’s hip, then begins planting kisses on his neck and shoulders until Ben turns over with a grunt and smiles blearily up at him. “Mornin’ you.”  
“Mornin’. Thought I’d wake ya up before the alarm goes off.”  
“Oh yeah? Why’s that then?”  
Callum kisses him again, then pulls back and raises an enquiring eyebrow.  
“Gettin’ a bit pushy, ain’t ya?” asks Ben. “Makin’ the first move.” He rolls over into Callum’s arms for a better angle and kisses back. “Yer gonna wear me out, Cal. I’m gonna havta tell ‘em at work I can’t come in, I’ve bin shagged to within an inch of me life.”  
Callum smiles softly at him. “They know about you? At work?”  
Ben turns serious. “Yeah. I made up me mind, after me dad I wouldn’t never lie about it again.”  
“But keepin’ quiet ain’t lyin’.”  
“Me boss asked me if I had a girlfriend, Cal. What was I gonna say? I don’t wanna hide it anymore. I told him I had a boyfriend.”  
Callum frowns, sure he could never find the courage to do the same. “An’ he was OK with that?”  
“Yeah, bit surprised, but he just said he’d never have guessed. An’ I ain’t got no grief about it since so…” Ben shrugs in Callum’s arms. “That’s the thing, ain’t it? The more we come out the closet, the more we challenge their assumptions.”  
Callum pulls away, sensing judgement in Ben’s words. “Ben, I don’t wanna get into this again, I - ”  
“Oh come ‘ere!” exclaims Ben, pinning him down in one quick move. “I weren’t havin’ a go. You gotta do things at yer own speed, and I ain’t pressurin’ ya. Not about that, anyway. I am gonna force ya to have sex with me though, and yer gonna like it or I’ll wanna know the reason why.”  
His cheeky grin breaks the mood immediately. Callum grins back. “I don’t reckon you’ll have any worries on that score.”

The weeks roll on. It seems activism is all around him. Ben starts attending the Gay Lib meetings with Lee and Andrew. At the station, Tina does the ground work for the launch of her gay and lesbian support group. Both of them are buzzing, talking of the change that’s coming and the influence they can have. Callum tries his best to steer clear of it all, but he can’t help their discussions rubbing off on him. Are they right? Could gay people ever be accepted by the straights? He begins to see that Tina and Ben look at it in a different way to him. They could wait for acceptance, or they could take charge, set the agenda for change. Gays telling the straights what’s what. It still sounds like a utopian dream to Callum though. In the run-up to Pride in July, Ben in particular gets more and more enthusiastic about what they could achieve. It feels like he’s using the experience with his dad to propel him forward, turning a low-point into a positive springboard to change things for the better. Callum wishes he shared his optimism. His experience is still clouded by the antagonism of DI Thompson at the station and the stupid little asides from officers like Savage when they think no one else is listening. To Callum, it feels very much like they set the agenda. It’s a straight man’s world and he doesn’t see that changing any time soon.  
Ben shares his news about the group’s activities with him but, true to his word, he doesn’t try to force him to get involved. The only time he does say anything is when they’re out with Andrew and Lee, and the subject of Pride comes around again. It’s only a week away and preparations are frenzied. Lee’s as busy with his work on the planning committee as he is with other activities.  
“I wish you’d come, Cal,” says Ben, rubbing a hand down his thigh as they’re all sitting in the Whitechapel pub they’d first ventured out to when they got together. It’s a late June day and the place is a welcome respite from the heat outside. “S gonna be a great day. Five hundred queers terrorisin’ the hets in the West End.”  
Callum throws him a look. “I can’t, Ben.”  
“Scared of what your boss will think?” asks Andrew.  
Beside him, Lee snorts. “I can think of no better way of sticking two fingers up to him, the miserable old bastard.”  
“Yep,” adds Andrew. “We’ve got to show them they don’t get to tell us what we can and can’t do. In the words of the Tom Robinson Band, ‘We Ain’t Gonna Take It’.  
Ben fixes him with a gleeful smile. “Andrew! I do believe that’s the only time I ever heard ya not use the queen’s English!”  
“I always use the queen’s English,” asserts Andrew with mock haughtiness, indicating himself with a sweep of his hands. “And actually you might want to review the grammar of that sentence of yours. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve seen an old conquest over there and I reckon he might be up for a return match.” He gets up and moves away without another look. Callum watches him cross the pub and stand, hip cocked, in front of a young blond bloke who looks overjoyed to see him. Callum looks away as they embrace and lock lips in a lengthy welcome, paying no heed to the other men around them.

It's all about who’s in the minority and who’s the majority. The power always lies with the majority. He’s reminded of this when he goes into work on the Tuesday that week, and Tina’s about to make the big announcement regarding her support group. When he enters the briefing room a group of officers are clustered round the notice board in the corner.  
“Who the hell put that there?” PC Savage is asking. As Callum watches he muscles his way to the front of the group and tears down the brightly coloured poster that’s appeared overnight.  
Callum looks around the room for Tina and sees her looking nervous in the other corner. Nervous, but resolute.  
“Me,” she announces. “And you’d better put that back up again right now.”  
“Or what?” asks Savage, brandishing the poster and then tearing it in two. “Ooh, what ya gonna do now, eh? Yer steppin’ out of line, love, Just get back in yer box.” He sniggers to those around him. “Lesbian and gay support group indeed! That lot don’t need support. I’ll tell ya what they need.” He whispers something and a couple of the officers laugh appreciatively. Callum stands stock still and avoids Tina’s gaze, paralysed with fear that she’s going to appeal to him for support.  
“You don’t get to say what goes on in this station,” says Tina, a tremor in her voice. “There’s all sorts of people in this force, an’ they’ve heard all they can stomach from dinosaurs like you. Times are changin’, Charlie. Yer gonna get left behind.”  
“Oh, that right, is it?” jeers Savage. He looks around him for support. A few officers make noises of agreement, but then something unexpected happens.  
From the other side of the office, a quiet, calm voice pipes up. They all swing round to see PC Gupta glaring at Savage. “We all have difference. No one should speak louder than anyone else.”  
Savage looks taken aback. A few of the officers around him begin to drift away now the conversation’s turning serious.  
“This fine policewoman, she is doing something of value,” continues Gupta, pointing at Tina. “We may not be the same, but we should support her in her courage.”  
“Who the hell is gonna join a freaks’ support group?” asks Savage.  
“Me, for one,” says a voice from the doorway. One of the traffic team steps inside and crosses to join Tina. Together, they stare down the rest of the officers as silence reigns.  
Callum swallows. Maybe power isn’t always held by the greatest numbers after all. In this moment, on a sunny Tuesday morning, in this office, it feels like Savage is losing his grip on the power he thought he had. Callum watches as he blusters, sniggering again. “Two of ya. Yeah, yer really gonna change the world ain’t ya?”  
“Maybe not,” says another PC. “But they might if a few more of us help.” He steps across to Tina.  
Afterwards, Callum is convinced he hadn’t consciously decided on his actions. Almost as if he’s having an out of body experience, he hears himself say, “I’ll help an’ all,” as his legs convey him across to Tina’s side of the room. He sees her grin at him in gratitude.  
“Oh, mightta known!” exclaims Savage. “I knew you was bent as a two-bob note.”  
With allies by his side and support at his back, Callum finds Savage’s words can’t hurt him anymore. He shrugs, enjoying the feeling of power he holds in that moment. He’s proud to be part of the inaugural lesbian and gay officers’ support group.

He’s over the moon when he gets home that night. Throughout the day, officers had sidled up to him and Tina and murmured quiet words of encouragement. ‘Good on ya’, ‘well done for bein’ so brave’, ‘more power to yer elbow.’ He’d not realised the extent of tolerance among the silent majority in that station.  
When he gets home, Ben’s just dumping his coat in the airing cupboard.  
“I’m comin’,” announces Callum as soon as he steps through the door.  
“Blimey,” says Ben drily. “I ain’t even touched ya yet. My sexual prowess knows no bounds.”  
Callum rolls his eyes as he crosses the room to take him in his arms. “I’m comin’ on the Pride march with ya.”  
Ben pulls back and stares at him in disbelief. “Seriously? What’s changed?”  
“I have decided I’m gonna write me own story,” says Callum grandly, “instead of lettin’ other people do it for me.”  
“You bin talkin’ to Andrew behind me back?” asks Ben. “That sounds like the flowery sorta thing he’d say.”  
“Nah, I joined Tina’s support group at work.”  
Ben’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “Really?”  
“Yep, I announced it in the office, and it shut up all the dickheads who’ve bin givin’ us a hard time these last few months in one split second. I never realised how powerful it could be to take control.”  
“Good on ya,” says Ben, pulling him into his arms again. “I gotta say, ya look good on it. Gay activism suits ya. In fact, I think I’m gonna have to take ya to bed right now. You up for it?”  
“Try ‘n’ stop me,” says Callum, leading him by the hand towards the bedroom.

The 5th of July is warm and sunny, a perfect day. Callum’s nervous as he and Ben take the bus to Hyde Park Corner and join the others milling around waiting for the march to start, but he draws strength from the numbers and from having Ben by his side. As they’re corralled into some sort of order and begin a straggling procession out onto the road, holding up the traffic and making an unholy racket, he sees members of the public stopping on the pavements to watch them go by. There are probably only about four or five hundred of them marching, but suddenly it feels like the whole world around him is gay, and with their banners and their whistles and their cheerful chanting of ‘we’re here, we’re queer, and ‘two four six eight, is that policeman really straight?’ it feels like today, they’re the ones in control. They’re the normal ones, and the people who watch from the sidelines, grinning or sneering or laughing at or with them, are the ones who seem at a disadvantage.  
Callum stares around him, at Ben, Andrew and Lee, chatting amiably as they make their way along the street; at the officers who police the event - most of them with fixed grins on their faces as the passing gay men gently taunt them - and feels like he’s finally on the right side. He can finally show the world who he really is.  
Ben shoulder-bumps him as they march along. “Good turn-out, ain’t it?”  
“Not bad,” says Callum.  
“I reckon one day, there’ll be thousands marchin’ like this,” says Ben. “This’ll grow and grow.”  
Callum’s not so sure. He snorts. “Yeah, and one day men’ll be able to marry each other and pigs’ll fly an’ all.”  
He softens his words by slipping his hand into Ben’s, feeling braver than he’s ever felt in all his days as a policeman stopping traffic and rescuing heartbroken divorcees from dual carriageways, and all the rest. Ben smiles softly at him, recognising his action for what it is. An act of courage.  
Maybe it’s the sunshine. Maybe Callum’s got carried away on a wave. He stops in the middle of the street and bends to kiss Ben, to wolf-whistles from Andrew and Lee, and a few other people around them. The procession streams around them leaving them behind, oblivious to their surroundings until they come up for air and find themselves just in front of the Dykes on Bikes banner. A loud scream greets them as Tina spots them. She rushes over, hand in hand with a dark-haired woman, and they march along together, smiling, chanting, making their way proudly through the world.

April 2014  
“You got it?” asks Ben as Callum comes through the door.  
Callum waves the local paper at him. “Dunno if we’re in there. She did say we might get bumped off if a bigger story come up.”  
“What could possibly be bigger than us?” asks Ben, grabbing the paper from Callum’s hand and adjusting his glasses. “Come an’ sit on me knee an’ I’ll read to ya.”  
“You do know that sounds a bit creepy, right, grandad?” asks Callum. He crosses to join Ben anyway, flopping down onto the couch beside him and peering over his shoulder as he leafs quickly through the paper.  
“Here we are!” says Ben at last. “Blimey! One of the centre pages. We must be the biggest story.”  
“Nice picture,” says Callum, tugging at the corner of the page so he can see better. Half of it is taken up with a big picture of the pair of them in their kitchen, looking relaxed and happy. In the bottom corner an insert black and white photo from thirty four years ago shows them both at Pride 1980, arm in arm and smiling cheekily at the camera.  
Ben smooths a hand down Callum’s thigh as he begins reading, his action familiar and practised after all these years.  
“Neighbourhood Focus, by our local reporter Maya Singh: our weekly focus on local people of note.”  
“People of note,” repeats Callum. “I shall have to tell everyone I’m a person of note. That’ll make ‘em sit up and take notice.”  
Ben grins at him. “Like they don’t anyway, gorgeous.” He turns back to the page and recommences reading aloud.  
“Last week saw a momentous event. It may not have had much impact on the majority of people in Walford, but for our gay friends and neighbours, the legalising of gay marriage has changed their lives in ways they couldn’t possibly have imagined. Perhaps it’s the final step in a journey towards acceptance that has been hard-fought over the last few decades. This week we focus on one newly-hitched local couple, Ben Mitchell and Callum Highway, to learn what it has meant for them.  
Ben and Callum could be described as childhood sweethearts. They first met at the age of 11 at Walford Secondary School, but it wasn’t until they re-established contact in 1979 at the age of 23 that romance blossomed. Life wasn’t easy back then, as they both recall.  
“My dad had just thrown me out for being gay,” explains Ben, a man with a determined air and a knack for a cheeky quip when the moment takes him, the sunlight glinting off the glasses that he says he’d be ‘blind as a bat’ without these days. “As luck would have it, Callum found me sitting at a bus stop with nowhere to go. He scooped me up, gave me a bed in his spare room for the night and it all progressed from there.”  
“I wasn’t actually out at that point,” adds Callum, tall and kindly, with greying hair and an easy-going manner. I notice while we talk that he seems happy to let Ben cut in and embellish his answers whenever he speaks. It’s a pattern the pair have no doubt fallen into over the course of the 35 years they’ve been together. “I was scared stiff of anyone finding out how I felt about Ben.”  
“Way, way back in the closet, he was,” agrees Ben. “Mind you, it wasn’t easy in them days. Lots of prejudice. People being beaten up in the streets, sacked from their jobs, thrown out of their homes. And Callum was a policeman, too, so that didn’t help.”  
It’s a career that laid the foundations for Callum’s current role, working in the diversity unit of the Metropolitan Police. “I’ve been there nearly thirty years,” he says. “I joined a gay and lesbian police officer support group set up by a friend of mine, a wonderful woman called Tina, tough as old boots she was. Lovely woman who was killed attending to a robbery gone wrong back in 1995.” He pauses for a second, lost in memories, but then his face brightens again. “She was always out and proud about who she was, and she inspired me to work for equality and greater awareness within the police – along with this one, of course.” He throws an arm around his partner – now husband - and they smile at each other.  
So what made Ben and Callum want to tie the knot?  
“It’s funny,” says Ben. “I was always the one that said I never would. It all seemed a bit too ‘straight’ for me. Callum was the romantic who wanted to walk down the aisle as soon as the law changed.”  
“But when we knew the bill was going to pass,” adds Callum, “he changed his mind, just like that.” He clicks his fingers.  
“It felt like a real act of defiance,” explains Ben, “a way of saying to straight society, we’re as good as you. We’re no different. We fall in love and we want to spend our lives with our loved ones. It’s actually quite subversive if you think about it.” His cheeky grin appears again. “Besides, I had to snap this one up before someone else did.”  
Callum rolls his eyes affectionately at his husband. It seems they’ve finally arrived at contentment, but it wasn’t always so. Has life been tough for them?  
“It has,” says Ben. “There was all the prejudice in the seventies and eighties, and then AIDS came along, just to make things worse. We saw a lot of people disappear at that time. It’s why we set up the Trust.”  
As well as owning one of the most successful garages in the Walford area Ben is trustee, along with Callum and another friend, of the Lee Thompson Trust, a support organisation for young gay people who find themselves homeless, in memory of one such friend who was lost in the AIDS pandemic.  
So, how would they sum up their lives, looking back on what they’ve achieved?  
“I think the one word would be ‘proud’,” says Callum, getting in for once before his husband. “I’m proud of who I am, and proud of what we’ve both achieved.” He smiles across at Ben. “And I’m very proud of him.”  
It seems this newly-married couple are a force for good in the world. They’re right to be proud and they deserve every happiness together.”

“Well,” says Callum as Ben puts down the paper. They look at each other.  
“Definitely makes us sound like people of note, don’t it?” asks Ben. “I weren’t sure about that reporter when she come to interview us. She was so young!”  
“She looked like a rabbit caught in headlights,” adds Callum.  
“She did.”  
“I think she’s done us proud, though.” Callum slaps Ben affectionately on the knee as he gets up to put the kettle on. He turns the radio on at the same time and ‘Sailing’ by Christopher Cross floats out over the airwaves.  
He smiles to himself and then turns back to Ben. “Hey, c’mere husband. Dance with me.”


End file.
